From Ashes to Honor (4 page)

A
fter delivering the battered football player to Bayview, Austin and his partner hung around for the traditional fifteen minutes, just in case the attendings had questions. They were leaning against the counter, sipping strong, stale coffee and chatting with the ladies in Admitting when the coaches and a couple dozen Owls poured into the ER waiting room.

Jordan marched forcefully up to them and crossed both arms over his chest, reminding Austin of his own football coach. "So what's the prognosis, boys?"

"Last we heard," McElroy offered up, "his vitals were strong and steady."

"That's a good sign, right?" Abe put in.

Austin opened his mouth to answer when he spotted Dr.Samara passing through the double sliding doors. She looked like a little kid in her ponytail and sporty get-up. How old could she possibly be, he wondered, doing some basic math in his head. Even if she'd graduated from college and med school early—and it wouldn't surprise him a bit if she had— she couldn't be less than thirty.

Seeing her on the field, looking at the boy with wide-eyed concern, reminded him of the way she'd looked at him the day he lost his cool and blathered nonsensically about the hours and days after 9/11. How many times had he made up his mind to call her, give her a piece of his mind for signing the form that changed the course of his life?

Too many to count, especially during those first agonizing months after he'd quit the force. Caring for his mother in the last year of her life had one positive outcome: It shamed him out of his self-centered self-pity. Taught him a thing or two about faith, too, and by the time his mom joined the angels, he had faced the ugly truth that freed him of bitterness and resentment . . . because he had nothing and no one but his own reckless behavior to blame for the demise of his career.

When he saw her standing behind the ambo, a dozen things shot through his mind, from how gorgeous she looked to what had put her on that football field, hundreds of miles from New York City. He thought of the long-overdue apology he owed her for the brusque speech he'd delivered at the conclusion of their last session.

But he had time now.

He'd worked with McElroy long enough to know it could take him five minutes to deliver his "Bayview is affiliated with Johns Hopkins, so the kid couldn't be in better hands" speech.Austin took advantage of the moment and strolled over to where she stood, looking confused by the painted arrows that usually failed to keep people from getting lost.

"Hey," he said, more than a little surprised at the slight tremor in his voice.

"Hey, yourself."

It had been years since he'd been this close to her. He'd almost forgotten that despite being barely bigger than a minute, she had the largest, longest-lashed eyes he'd ever seen.Pocketing his hands, he said, "So . . . what're you doing here?"

"I'm here to check on my student, of course."

She sounded incredulous, as if she expected that somehow, he'd know that important fact. Now, in addition to wondering what she was doing in Maryland, he wanted to know why she'd left the police department.
Couldn't handle the nutjobs like you
. . . ?

Austin cleared his throat. "You're a teacher now?"

A soft laugh prefaced her response. "Hardly!" She adopted a slightly more serious expression to add, "It isn't easy to admit, but I don't have the patience for lesson plans and paper grading."She sent him a half smile and shrugged. "So these days, I'm a guidance counselor."

Her matter-of-fact response reminded him of the way she'd conducted ninety-nine percent of their sessions. Only once had she allowed him a glimpse of the
real
Mercy Samara.Reminded him, too, that she had a talent for putting music to even the most ordinary words.

Both perfectly arched brows rose as she nodded toward the ER's double doors. "I suppose it's too soon to expect a report on Tommy."

What
was
it about her! Back in their "session" days, he'd spent most of his time searching his mind for ways to get her off his back. And now all he only wanted to erase that worried look on her face. "I, ah . . ." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I could go back there, see what I can find out, if you like."

"Oh, would you?" Now those big, dark eyes focused on the team and the coaches, gathered in a tight semi-circle around McElroy, still singing the praises of the staff. "I'm sure an update will ease their minds, too."

The hospital's entry doors slid open to admit a couple whose curly blond hair and green eyes identified them as the injured kid's parents. Austin walked toward them. "Mr. and Mrs. Winston?"

The man made a half-hearted attempt to extend a hand in greeting, but the woman held tight, preventing it. "Where's our boy?" she demanded.

He'd have to be deaf not to hear the brittle fear and worry in her voice. He'd seen that
look
before, too. Unfortunately, it identified her as the type who'd faint dead away at the first sight of her son, connected to monitors and tubes. Last thing the poor kid needed when he regained consciousness was a hysterical mama hovering over him. Austin definitely didn't envy the doctors and nurses who'd have to contend with
this
two-legged tiger.

He raised a hand, traffic-cop style, hoping they'd read it as their signal to stay put. "Let me find out where he is," he said, backpedaling toward the exam area. "Soon as I know something, I'll be back."

As he shoved through the double doors, he saw Mercy approach them. The Winstons didn't know it yet, but he'd had years to figure out that they couldn't be in better hands. And when this latest family crisis ended, he'd find a way to tell her exactly that.

M
rs. Winston blotted her eyes on a pink tissue. "I
knew
this would happen if he played football," she whimpered. "I don't know why I let your father talk me into signing those papers.Just look at you. Why, you look as though you were hit by a bus!"

"I sorta was," Tommy said. "That's been Healye's nickname since last season."

"Don't be a smart-mouth."

"But Mom, it's true. Just ask my coach or any of—"

"If I
ever
have the displeasure of seeing your Mr. Jordan again," she sniffed, "he won't soon forget what I have to say about his so-called
coaching
skills!" She aimed her next barb at her husband. "Well, are you happy now?"

Her husband heaved a resigned sigh and hung his head."Lorna," he droned, "the boy tried out for the team because
he
wanted to, not because I played the game in college."

"Oh, fine," she huffed, dropping onto the seat of the green vinyl chair beside Tommy's bed. "If lying to yourself eases your conscience, then by all means—"

"Hey, guys," Mercy interrupted, "will you join me in the cafeteria? It's been a long, tiring afternoon, and I'm sure you could both use a break."

Mrs. Winston simultaneously crossed her legs and arms—a not-too-subtle hint that she intended to stay put, and woe to the person who tried to change her mind. But Mercy could be stubborn, too, when the situation demanded it.

She stepped between Mrs. Winston's chair and Tommy's bed. Patting the boy's hand, she said, "Didn't I hear you say earlier, Mr. Winston, that you haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast?"

He sent her a tiny, grateful smile. "That's right."

"And I'm sleepy," Tommy said. "I could sure use a nap."

Mercy winked at him. "Y'know, you do look a little pale."

And so it was agreed. They'd join Mercy just long enough to grab a quick bite, giving their son a chance to rest up after his ordeal.

Neither parent spoke as they rode the elevator down to the first floor, and the uncomfortable silence continued as they stood, waiting their turn to choose between chicken, meatloaf, and burgers. Finally, at the end of the line, as Mercy paid for all three meals, husband and wife agreed on something. "You shouldn't have, Dr. Samara."

"It's my pleasure," she said, meaning it. It would have been worth five times the dollar amount to get them away from Tommy's room.

The Winstons sat with their backs to the windows. The darkness outside gave the glass the appearance of black mirrors.Mercy sat across from them, and, ignoring her reflection, slid her tray across the speckled Formica table. "You've done a wonderful job with Tommy," she admitted. "He's a delightful boy."

Tommy's mother looked so young and pretty when she smiled. Mercy hoped the little spiel she seemed determined to deliver wouldn't erase it.

"About five years ago," she began, "my dad was injured on the job and spent six grueling months in the hospital, so I know how stressful and exhausting it can be for family members.Fortunately," she said, draping a paper napkin over her knees, "Tommy will be home by this time next week. Even so, you'll need to pace yourselves, maybe alternate visits, so one of you can rest while the other is with him."

Mr. Winston didn't need convincing, as evidenced by his agreeable grin. But if the thin-lipped grimace on his wife's face was any indicator, it would take a little more work to persuade her.

"I'm sure the doctors have already explained that he'll need a lot of one-on-one care after he gets home. Might be a few weeks before he can get himself into and out of bed without help, and he's a big boy!" She poured a dab of mustard onto her hot dog. "I wish somebody had advised
me
to take advantage of my dad's round-the-clock hospital care!"

If she'd had to guess, Mercy would have said
Mr.
Winston, not his wife, would agree with her. "You make a good point," the woman said. "He
is
a big boy!" She looked at her husband."What do you think, honey?"

"I think Miss Samara is an angel, that's what I think." He kissed his wife's cheek, then grinned at Mercy. "I detect a slight New York accent. Were you born there?"

"Actually, I was born in England. My parents met when they were students at Oxford, and after graduation, they were both hired by . . ." Though proud of their chosen careers, Mercy sidestepped the truth. ". . . a government agency."

"What kind of name is 'Samara'?" Mrs. Winston asked."Jewish?"

At times like these, she wished she'd followed her father's example. On the day he became a U.S. citizen, he'd changed his name from Samara to Samuels. After 9/11, he changed careers, too, and traded the prestige and salary of a U.N. translator for a demanding job as a delivery boy. But try as he might to outrun the suspicion and mistrust aroused by his dark skin and jet-black hair, he couldn't escape the prejudice of a population still hurting because of the actions of his former countrymen.To this point, she'd been nothing but pleasant, blaming Mrs.Winston's rudeness as the unsavory result of her concern for her son. She'd do her level best not to appear rude, but she would
not
answer the woman's question.

"Heavens," she said, pretending to read her watch. "I had no idea it was so late!"

She got to her feet and shouldered her purse.

"But you haven't had a bite," Mrs. Winston said. "You're going to let all this food go to waste?"

Mercy felt no need to answer that question, either. "I should have checked the time before I sat down. Feel free to help yourself.Or bring the tray to Tommy. As you pointed out, I hardly touched it!" Then, in a slightly less brittle tone, she added, "My poor cat will think I've abandoned him." Shoving her chair under the table, Mercy waved. "It's been a delight visiting with you, though I wish we could have gotten acquainted under better circumstances."

She'd been rambling and knew it, but seemed powerless to stop the steady flow of words. "I'll stop by in a few days to see Tommy," she added, picking up her tray. "My neighbor's husband subscribes to
Sports Illustrated.
If he has any old issues lying around, I'll bring them, to give Tommy something to do besides watch TV."

Shut up, Mercy.
Just—shut—up!

"Thanks for supper," Mr. Winston said.

"Yes, thank you," his wife agreed.

"My pleasure!"
Liar,
she thought, making a beeline for the door. Nothing about this day had been pleasurable.

Head down, she rummaged through her purse in search of her keys. For months now, she'd been threatening to buy a new one, something smaller, with pockets and compartments and zippers where she could store her wallet and cell phone and sunglasses. And a clip to hold her keys! Tomorrow, first thing, she'd go to the mall and—

Mercy never finished the thought, because she plowed straight into Austin Finley.

A
ustin stared at the ceiling, wondering how a woman half his size managed to put him flat on his back.

"Ohmygoodness!" she said, kneeling beside him. "I'm so sorry. Are you all right? I'm sorry," she said again. "I'd just had the most uncomfortable—" She waved a hand in front of her face, as if shooing an annoying mosquito. "Silly me. You don't want to hear about that!" Laughing, Mercy added, "I was looking for my keys. Didn't even see you out here. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said, levering himself onto one elbow."Dumbfounded that somebody no bigger than a minute packs such a wallop, but otherwise, I'm OK."

Austin pretended not to notice when she held out a hand to help him up, because no way a gal her size could stand him upright again. He got up and started dusting himself off, and to his surprise, Mercy helped him. Her little hands, patting his back, his chest and upper arms, were unexpectedly strong.And warm. Whether she stopped because people were staring or because he was staring, he couldn't say, but it took every ounce of self control he could muster to keep from saying, "Don't pay them any mind."

"What're you still doing here?" they asked in unison.

"Just stopped by to check on the football kid," he said while she sputtered, "Trying to give Tommy a minute's peace from his hovering mother."

Then she faced him and pointed into the cafeteria. "Were you going in there for coffee?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Thought I'd grab a sandwich to eat on the way home." But he sensed a warning in her words, and added "Why?"

"Trust me. Don't waste your money. The coffee's so thick you can stand a spoon in it. You'll get a fresher cup at the Double T Diner."

Instinct made him lick his lips. "I'd suggest we head over there together, but I take it you've already eaten."

She waved the question away. "I put a bunch of stuff on my tray, mostly so the Winstons would follow suit, but I didn't eat a bite." Another giggle, and then, "Truth is, I'm starving."

He'd dated his share of women, here in Maryland and back in New York, but not one had made his palms damp and his ears hot. Hadn't made his heart beat double-time, just by looking at him, either.

He'd better make a decision, fast, because if she kept looking up at him that way, blinking those oh-so-perfect brown eyes, he might just have to kiss that oh-so-perfect mouth. He'd always been drawn to tall women, blue-eyed blonds and brassy redheads who wore bright lipstick and ebony mascara. The top of Mercy's head barely reached his shoulder, and while she had curves in all the right places, he'd hardly call her buxom.He saw her as smart and funny, and—as evidenced by what she'd done for Tommy—big-hearted, too. He could do worse, he supposed. A whole lot worse. "You want to meet me over there? Or, I'm happy to drive you, bring you back here so you can pick up your ca—"

"Well, well, Dr. Samara," Mrs. Winston said, "I take it you've called a neighbor to feed your cat?"

Austin grinned at her. "You don't strike me as the cat lady type."

Mercy laid a hand on his forearm and answered the woman.

"I was just getting ready to give Mr. Finley, here, directions to my place. We're old friends—knew each other in New York!— and he hasn't seen it yet."

Friends? Austin bristled slightly at the term, because like it or not, he wanted to be more than just her friend.

Tommy's parents exchanged a knowing smile, then hurried

into the elevator. "You kids have fun, now," Mr. Winston said.

Last thing they heard before the doors slid shut was Mr.Winston's hearty laughter.

Austin waited a moment before saying "Was that invitation for their benefit, to get rid of them quicker?"

"No." She shrugged. "Makes no sense to pay for food when I have leftover spaghetti and meatballs in the fridge." Another shrug. "It'll save you having to drive me all the way back here to fetch my car afterward."

Meaning she
would
have let him drive her to the Double T? The notion made him smile.

"Besides," she continued, "as those kids so astutely pointed out, we
are
grownups."

He played along with her. "With strict instructions to have fun."

She pulled a tablet from her purse and grabbed the ballpoint clipped to his shirt pocket and started scribbling. "In case we get separated," she said, tearing off the top page and tucking it into his pocket.

Not a chance that's gonna happen, he thought as she put the pen back where she'd found it.

What a difference from their heated exchanges in her tiny office! A mental image of it flickered through his head, making him wonder if her house was just as cramped and cluttered.But he didn't bother asking, because he'd find out soon enough. He'd always been a realist. And a bit of a pessimist, too. Surely this newfound ease between them wouldn't last, so what did it matter if her place looked like a sty? Because no way he'd spend a lot of time over there.

The admission disappointed him more than he cared to admit, souring his good mood.

When they reached the stairwell leading into the parking garage, Mercy said, "Do you have a GPS?"

"Nah. I only live a mile from the station, and there's a GPS on every truck." He held the door, and as she stepped into the garage, added, "Never saw much point in investing in one."

Mercy sighed.

"What . . . ."

"That's my car over there, Mister-Map-in-His-Head," she said, pointing at a plain gray sedan. "Without a GPS, I'd spend half my time driving in circles around the city. Fells Point is gorgeous on foot, but it's confusing as can be when you're behind the wheel."

If he'd read her address correctly, she lived on Merchant's Row, an easy commute to I-83 by way of Fleet and President Streets. Making a part-time job of getting lost? It seemed the only trait Mercy shared with other gals he'd known. "How do you get to work?"

"Boston Street to Dundalk Avenue to Holabird."

"Ah, and then a quick shot to Delvale . . . ."

"Right."

What in the world had gotten into him? He could count on one hand the number of times he'd wasted this much breath on small talk—especially with a woman—and have fingers left over. Since his days in therapy, he'd become a bit of an armchair shrink, and now he blamed his behavior on the emotions aroused by seeing her in person after so many years of picturing her in his head.

She unlocked her driver's door and opened it. One foot in and one out of the car, she said, "See you over there, then."

Mercy didn't wait for him to find his pickup. Instead, she headed for the exit like a woman being pursued by a bad guy.Is that how she saw him, thanks to those borderline temper tantrums in her office?

Borderline, my big fat foot,
he thought, pocketing both hands as he headed for his truck. Everyone, it seemed, from his folks to his twin and now his coworkers had found occasion to accuse him of making mountains out of molehills. So maybe he was reading too much into the look on her face, the one that wavered between regret and concern. Construction on I-95, or traffic between here and her house could just as easily have inspired it as the invitation—and his acceptance of it.

Stomach grumbling as he turned over the engine, Austin wished he'd taken a few minutes to grab a bite, because those corn flakes he'd wolfed down at breakfast didn't have much sticking power. Should he stop and pick up something on his way to Fells Point, save her the bother of heating up the leftovers? Couple of crab cake sandwiches sure would hit the spot. Then again, what if Mercy hadn't gone as nuts over the traditional Maryland staple as he had? What if she was one of those unlucky people with seafood allergies? Better to play it safe, he told himself, and grab a pizza. And he knew just the place to get one, too.