Love M.D. (4 page)

“I’m in the kitchen.”

I’ve seen Megan before, and met her
with Jada once or twice, so she’s not completely foreign to me. She looks lovely
today in a pink sundress with her long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders.
Her bold, blue eyes sparkle when she sees me.

“Hi Megan. Welcome.” We kiss gently
on either cheek.

“Thanks for having me. I love this
house. It’s so obscure. I would have never guessed a place like this existed
right outside of San Francisco.”

“I call it my little jewel box in
the forest. I guess everyone else was looking for a bay view. It was on the
market for almost a year. I love all the glass and that it’s completely open to
the forest that surrounds us. Feel free to look around.”

“I need to find a place like this.
I love it.”

“You’re in the market?”

She hesitates and smiles, looking
into Zach’s eyes. “I was…but those plans are on hold for now.”

I look at her then him. I’m
beginning to realize by the second that this relationship is much more serious
than I initially thought. I think the
M
word
might be floating
around my brother’s head.

“Get him to design you the mansion
of your dreams.”

Laughing, she says, “I don’t want a
mansion, I’d be happy with a place like this.”

“You’re in Jada’s old condo,
right?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been seriously talking about
a future together,” Zach continues.

Tears sting my eyes, and I lean
over and caress his hand warmly. In many ways, being separated when we were
kids was a defining point in both of our lives. Back then, we were inseparable,
and just one week after the death of our parents, we lost each other, too.

Because of that, we never had many
other deep personal relationships, but as I look at my brother, I see that’s
changing, and it makes me happy. He’s always approached things so
lightheartedly, it’s nice to see him taking something seriously for a change. I
love Megan for being that change in his life.

I try to control my emotions, but I
can’t and the tears tumble down.

“Zoë, please don’t cry,” Zach says,
hugging me.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something
wrong?” Megan asks.

“No. It’s not you,” we respond simultaneously.

“You said everything right.” I reach
for Megan’s hand. “Thank you for being here… for being in his life.”

I’m not sure she understands what’s
happening, but I hug her gently then return to fixing breakfast while Zach
shows her around.

An hour later, we sit on my patio,
shaded by the redwoods. Jordan—Jada and Jonathan’s one-and-a-half-year old son—seems
thoroughly entertained by Peaches and Pixie. Sitting on a blanket with them, he
feeds them some of his fruit while we sip mimosas with our breakfast.

“So how did your meeting with Morgan
Drake go?” Jada asks. “Johnny told me he wasn’t
nearly
as old as I
initially thought.”

“It went well. I’ve started work
already. Thanks for the referral.”

She raises her glass in reply. A
devious grin flashes across her face. “Nice guy?”

“Seems so. I didn’t get the
opportunity to find out too much. We met Monday night, and he was out of the
country by Tuesday.”

“He was at an event on Monday to
start some new relationships and get new sponsors in San Francisco,” says
Jonathan. “That night, after the event, he ordered some dinner to take home. I
was two or three cars behind him after we left and the traffic stopped at a
light. Next thing I know, I see him running onto the sidewalk. He gave his
dinner to a homeless man on the side of the road.”

As I hear Jonathan’s words, I feel
a flicker… well maybe a bit more than a flicker of warmth in my chest.
It
looks like Jonathan Kole might be a treasure-trove of information.

“He went to Stanford,” he
continues.

“Interesting. Is that where you two
met?” I ask.

“Actually, no. We belong to the
same fraternity. We know some of the same people but hadn’t met before.”

I’m curious, and I’d like to know
more, but I don’t want to ask any questions. I’m hoping Jonathan might
volunteer the information.

Jada turns to Jonathan, but is smiling
at me, “Is he married?”

“No. Well, almost no. He’s going
through a divorce. He didn’t go into too much detail, but he told me he was so
eager for it to be over. He left his ex-wife everything. He only shipped some
books and artwork his mom left him before she died.”

“He was so vague about what he
wanted as far as design, he left it all up to me. I used the artwork as
inspiration. Little did I know that it held so much sentimental value. Did he
say anything about a daughter or kids?”

“No. He didn’t. I didn’t get the
impression that kids were involved. Why?”

“Just curious.” I’m not sure I
should be discussing personal details of what Morgan has in his house, and with
that one thought, I choose to end all conversation about him.

“What are you all doing for the
rest of your day?” Jada asks. “Come sailing with us.”

“I’d love to, but duty calls. I’m
trying to get as much as possible of Morgan’s house done before he returns next
week. Rain check?”

“Sure…” Jada responds. “Zach? Are you
and Megan game?”

They look at each other, smile and
nod. It isn’t long before they leave, and I’m on my way to Belvedere.

The first few
days of the week are very productive. I
manage to finish a project I was working on for some clients in Oakland, and
work is in progress at the doctor’s house.

By Friday, the upstairs flooring in
Morgan’s house is installed, the grass cloth wallpaper is up and the master
bedroom is near completion. Over the weekend, I will be here with the cleaners
to get the room ready for when the furniture arrives on Monday.

The closets are finished. Leo and I
start getting in the contents of the suitcases where they belong and leave
valuable space where the furniture will go.

After lunch the following Thursday,
the floor to ceiling bookshelves are installed, and Leo starts getting Morgan’s
books in order. He’s great with organizing, and he devises a system to get the
books displayed in alphabetical order by category.

Leo and I work late into the night
stacking the bookshelves. On a few occasions, Morgan’s literature distracts me.
Most of them are medical books, but it seems he has taken great interest in
many diseases and causes afflicting people in third world countries. Beyond that,
there are a wide array of books and magazines on
man toys
, as I like to
call them—cars, motorbikes, and yachts. I suppose what intrigues me is his
apparent obsession with the pyramids of Egypt. I’ve counted at least fifteen
books on them so far. He seems well travelled, and I wonder if he’s been there
in the past.

My curiosity is killing me, and as
soon as Leo leaves, I pull out my laptop and google Dr. Morgan Drake to see
what I find.

Mostly everything I find relates to
his philanthropic work, and there are many pictures with a beautiful soon-to-be
blonde ex-wife. I can’t seem to find anything documenting a divorce.

I am deeply engrossed in reading
about some work he did in Belize when I hear a loud crash from the pier below.

I head outside
onto the pool deck. It’s windy tonight,
and as I switch on the lights at the pier below, I notice one of the ties that
anchors the boat to the landing came loose and the stern of the vessel hit the
mooring.

I kick off my heels and run down a
gazillion lit stairs to try to secure it in place. There is some damage to the
boat named
Abby
, and the pier will need repair work done.

The wind must have been stronger
than I thought. The eye that the ropes are supposed to be secured to is
missing. It must have pulled too tightly, ripped off the wooden deck and fallen
into the water.

After some work, I manage to secure
the boat in place. I head back up the stairs, pull my things together and head
home to my crew.

The countertops are
installed, and it’s close to ten
o’clock on Friday night. The workers finish the last square inch of lacquer on
the wood floors. I wait outside by my car while they wrap up details and head
home. I lock up and activate the alarm.

A car drives in just as the workmen
drive away. It’s Morgan in his sporty black Tesla—he’s three days early. He
pulls up before me. With the engine running, he says with a sexy grin. “Miss
Jenkins. Burning the midnight oil I see.”

Even with sunken, red eyes, he
still manages to look amazing in black jeans and a sweater.

“You’re three days early.”

With a nuance of wit in his voice,
he replies, “Well, I apologize, Ms. Jenkins, but I didn’t think I’d need your
permission to return home.”

“You don’t. I hate to be the one to
break it to you, but you can’t go into the house. The floors downstairs were
just refinished, and they need twelve hours to cure.”

“Damn.”

“Damn is right. Looks like you will
have to find yourself a hotel for tonight.”

“Great. I’m starving,” he says,
leaning back, eyes closed against the headrest.

“How long have you been
travelling?”

He glances at the dashboard clock,
“About twenty-three hours.”

I feel a bit sorry for him. “Why
don’t I help you find a place to stay before I head home?”

“Sure. I would have called my
sister but she, her family and my dad are out of town until Sunday.”

“No worries. I have my laptop right
here. We’ll find you a place to stay.”

I sit next to him in the passenger
side of his car to search the internet. After six calls and wishes of good luck
on finding a room for the night because of some conference going on in town,
frustration sets in. I even call Jada to see if she could help out but both her
resorts are fully booked.

“Look, I have extra rooms at my
house. If you like, you can stay the night.”

“You’d do that?”

“I can’t, in good conscience, let
you sleep in your car.”

“Are you sure I’m not imposing?”

“No, you’re not. I’m starving, and for
the last hour, I’ve been thinking about the meal my housekeeper, Gail, fixed me.
I’m sure there’s enough for you.”

“Zoë, I don’t know how to thank
you.”

“Start by parking your car and getting
into my vehicle so we can leave.”

“Yes, boss.” He parks and joins me
in my vehicle with his suitcase, laptop bag and what I suspect is a medical
bag—all tanned leather.

“How was your trip?” I ask as we
drive up the hill and through the gates of his property.

“Successful, but we had to cut it
short because a typhoon was headed to Indonesia. I would have stayed through it
if I didn’t have a meeting scheduled for Tuesday. I didn’t want to get stuck
there.”

“Well, the good news is your suite
is almost finished. The furniture comes in tomorrow or Monday. In fact, apart
from the other bedrooms and their baths, the upstairs is complete. And the
countertops were installed in the kitchen this afternoon. Also, I finished your
library a few days ago.”

“That’s amazing. I wasn’t expecting
you to get so much done in such a short space of time.”

“To save on time and money I bought
factory cabinetry and outfitted it to look custom in the closets and library.
The furniture for downstairs arrives late next week.”

“Thank you. You’ve outdone
yourself.”

“Doing my job.”

Ten minutes later, we pull into my mostly-hidden
driveway.

“I drive past this road every day,
and I’ve never seen that entrance,” Morgan says.

“That’s why I like it.”

“Isn’t this a little secluded for
you?” he asks as I maneuver through the dimly lit winding, wooded driveway. “Do
you live alone?”

“I live with my cat and my massive
dog.”

“I know, but this feels like you’re
deep in the woods, isolated from everyone.”

“That’s exactly what it is, and
that’s why I like it,” I reply.

Just then, my beautiful
contemporary appears. The garage door opens then immediately goes down behind
me after I drive in.

“We have arrived,” I say, switching
off the ignition. I deactivate the alarm before I head through the interior
staircase. He follows. I hear Peaches as she runs through the house with
excitement. Pixie isn’t far behind. Once the dog sees Morgan, she stills.

“Hello, my Sweets… how’s my
favorite doggie and pussycat?”

Peaches barks while Pixie caresses
her body against my leg.

“Be nice. This is Doctor Drake.
Doc, meet Peaches and Pixie.”

Peaches walks up and sniffs him,
and it isn’t long before Morgan has his hands all over her.

“Zoë, I’m staying in your house for
the night. I think we’ve moved beyond the Doctor Drake phase.”

“We’ll see. Would you prefer to
shower and settle in first? Or do you want to eat?”

“I’m dying for a shower.”

“Great, well, quick tour… kitchen
to the left… help yourself to whatever you want, and as you can see this is the
great room. All the bedrooms are upstairs.”

“Beautiful grand piano,” he says
looking over to the corner of the room. “You play?”

“A little,” I reply nonchalantly. “Follow
me. I’ll show you to your room.”

“I love all the glass, but I worry
about you living in a place like this all by yourself.”

“I’ve been fine and incident free
from the time I moved here two years ago. And as you noticed, I have an alarm
and, trust me when I tell you, Peaches is not always that nice.”

“She’s not a bull mastiff is she?”

“No, Boerboel. Anyway, this is my
bedroom here,” I say, pointing to my right as we arrive at the top of the
landing. This is the laundry room to the left if you need to use it. And your
room is right here,” I say, walking beyond the laundry door.

“This looks like you. Clean and
sleek lines, nothing too ornate.”

“That’s me…” I smile, “That door
leads to the bathroom. There are clean towels in the bathroom closet. If you
give me a minute I’ll get some fresh sheets for the bed.”

“Sure. Thanks again, Zoë.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll be back in a
while to make the bed.”

When I return to the room, he’s
already in the shower. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and as I hear the
shower running, I am incredibly tempted to look through to see the specimen
beyond. I hate that I’m so attracted to him—
my client
. A good-looking, almost-divorced
intelligent man like him can only be bad news.

I resist the urge, quickly casting the
thought aside. I make the bed and leave. I grab a shower myself, throw on a
comfy white short jersey dress, and head downstairs.

When I arrive downstairs, he’s sitting
at one of the island barstools, working on his laptop. He’s wearing jeans and a
white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows. Most of the top buttons are undone,
and my eyes are drawn to the naked patch of his chest that shows through.

 Handing me a small object wrapped
in paper, he says, “I brought you this.”

“What is it?” I pull the paper
away. It’s a beautiful bowl carved from a solid block of wood, simple but very
elegant,
not too ornate—very me.

“Just a memento.”

“Thank you. It’s lovely.”

“It’s from the village where that
little girl lived that time when you called.”

“Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I did a lot of that while I was
there,” he responds.

A tingling sensation coils around
my neck. I turn away to get dinner out of the warming drawer.

“This is really nice, Zoë,” he says,
looking around. “If my place looks half as good as this, I’ll be happy.”

“I tried to design as per your
taste.”

“Your taste is my taste, less the
purple, of course.”

“You don’t like purple?”

“Maybe on a tie. That’s as far as I’d
go.”

“I have a hard time picturing you
in a purple tie.”

“Really? How do you picture me?”

Naked.

A flush invades my body. I
immediately change the topic. “What do you eat? Anything? Chicken? Fish?”

“Mostly seafood and poultry, but I’ll
have a steak occasionally.”

“That means grilled fish with a
baked potato and veggies work for you?”

“It does.”

“Wine?” I show him a bottle of
chardonnay.

“Sure. Let me help you with
something.”

 I hand him the bottle of wine and
the opener. Minutes later, we sit at the banquette area off the kitchen, eating
dinner.

“Bon appétit.”

Raising his glass, he asks, “Has it
always been just the three of you?”

“Yes. The place was run down when I
bought it, so I remodeled, and I’ve been here since.”

“No boyfriend?”

I gaze at him in silence for a
moment. “No. No boyfriend,” I say quietly.

“You’re beautiful. Surely, you
could have any man you wanted.”

“Boyfriends are stressful and they
cheat.”

“You’re scarred.”

“I’m smart.”

“Smart or protecting yourself?”

I really don’t want to talk about
me
so I decide to change the topic. “Tell me about the little girl in the photo
and the child’s artwork.”

“You saw that,” he murmurs, sipping
some of his wine. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, we have all night.”

Turning very serious, he squirms. I’ve
taken him into uncomfortable territory. Finally, he mumbles, “I thought she was
my daughter.”

“
Thought
?”

“Yes. Until things went south in my
marriage and my ex informed me that she was not my child.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ve been battling each other in
the courts for months. And because I am not her biological father, I have no
rights to see her—despite the fact that I thought she was. I treated her as my
own for years.”

“Have you appealed?”

“Three times. I finally decided it
would be in her best interest to let it go. At some point she’ll be old enough,
and I will explain to her, but with both her biological parents now in a
relationship, and with both of them objecting to visitation rights for me, it’s
become an impossible situation.”

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure where
I should put the artwork. I eventually settled on an easel in the library. Now
I’m thinking the family room upstairs might be better. I hope that’s okay. If
you’d like it somewhere else let me know.”

He smiles gently at me. As what he
told me sinks in, I realize he must feel similar to the way I felt when Zach
and I were separated as kids—the same feeling of loss. I empathize with him.

“Do you think it’s possible that
her parents will ever change their minds?”

“I doubt it. There’s too much
damage, too much hurt. I just want it to be over. My best friend and my wife
were having an affair for almost my entire marriage, and I was too busy to
notice.”

“I was married, too, for six
months.”
Shoot!
I’ve slipped. I’m not sure why I admitted that to him. I
suppose I want him to know that I understand how he feels.

“Your wounds seem much deeper.”

“They are… but I don’t want to talk
about it. We’ve both had a rough day. Perhaps we should indulge in
conversations just a tad less stressful.”

“Maybe…” he says. “Or perhaps you
can share. I’d love to get to know you.”

“Since
you’re
so eager to
talk, tell me about your daughter. Despite the fact you won’t refer to her as your
daughter, I sense you feel in every way that counts she still is.”

“That’s true. Her name is Abby. She’s
five years old,” he says quietly.

“
Ah
, Abby. The boat is named
after her.”

He nods.

“You miss her.”

“Terribly.” He takes a big swig of
wine.

“When was the last time you saw
her?”

“Ten, eleven months ago.” His muscles
tighten, and I know at this moment, the thought of being without her is eating
him alive.

“Is there any way to resolve this? Surely
if your ex wants what’s in her daughter’s best interest, she’d not let the one
constant in her daughter’s life for all these years be taken away like this?”

“I wish that were true, but it’s
not going to happen. Unknown to me, her biological father was the
other
constant
in her life when I was abroad.”

“Abby never said anything about
him?”

“She did, but considering he taught
at her school, and I knew he’d sometimes drop her home when I was away, I was
never suspicious. Not to mention he lived down the road from my old house.
Looking back, perhaps I was naïve, but I trusted him…I trusted them.”

“Maybe after some time the hurt
will subside and you all will move past this. Even if it’s for Abby’s sake.”

“I’m not so sure. I walked in on my
best friend fucking my wife in my bed. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Audrey
sprung on me at that very moment that she wanted a divorce and told me Abby was
not my child—she was his. I lost it, and I nearly killed him.”

“How?”

“I beat him up pretty badly. I think
every ounce of shock, anger and hate I had went onto his body. I fractured his
jaw and broke his nose and a few of his ribs.”