The Holiday Triplets (18 page)

“Don't let guilt rule your life,” Sam wrote back. “We're all guilty of something. Put it behind you. Happy New Year.”

She returned to scrolling. Near the end of the email
queue, a message line caught her eye. “From Artie Ortega's family.”

Before she could read it, the phone rang. It was the nursery.

“Your daughters don't seem well,” the worker said. “Could you come over and check on them?”

Sam's heart leaped into her throat. “Right away,” she said, and instantly forgot everything else.

Having put his job in jeopardy, Mark did something else uncharacteristic: he left work early on New Year's Eve to go shopping.

There were, he saw as he cruised the residential streets of Safe Harbor, no yard sales on holidays. He did, however, find a thrift store that hadn't closed yet.

Fortified with a couple of purchases, he drove to Sam's house. Before leaving the hospital, he'd learned that she'd taken the triplets home, so he knew she must be there. The day care worker had also mentioned that Connie and Courtney suffered from colds. Good thing they had a pediatrician for a mother.

He parked in front of her bungalow. A strand of colored lights blinked at him flirtatiously, slightly off synch with the neighbor's flashier display.

Mark had no idea when he'd fallen in love with Samantha. But after he left the message for Owen and sat there hoping with all his heart that somehow he'd find a way to keep her on staff, he'd realized the “somehow” wasn't enough.

Well, here he was. Nervous, but too impatient to delay.

He got out of his car. Since he could hear the babies
crying, he didn't have to worry about waking them, so he gave the bell a jab.

“It's open!” called a thick voice that sounded like Samantha's.

Mark cracked open the door to a blast of moist air and the scent of pine. “Hello? It's me.”

“Over here.” She sat on the couch, her face puffy and red as if from crying. Blond hair straggled every which way, some of it stuck behind her ears, some sweeping over the baby cradled in her arms. Her jogging suit bore splashes of formula.

From an inside room, he heard the other two triplets fussing. While he considered it unlikely that a trio of babies with head colds could have reduced Sam to such a state, Mark didn't stop to quiz her. First things first. “Do the kids have temperatures?”

“Low grade,” she told him. “Just the girls.”

He set the thrift-store bag on an end table. “Coughing and sneezing?”

“Yes.”

“Leave this to me.”

Half an hour later, Colin—the easiest of the three to deal with today—was fed, diapered and asleep. Courtney, who'd been in Sam's arms, had also been settled in bed, her congestion eased by saline nose drops and a cool-mist vaporizer.

His specialty might not be pediatrics, but Mark kept up with the latest research and agreed with Sam's decision to avoid over-the-counter medications. These didn't work well and in newborns could have dangerous side effects, such as thinning mucus into fluids that might literally drown a baby.

Sam was feeding the last of the trio a bottle as Mark
settled in a chair. On the Christmas tree, the cherub dolls watched with painted smiles and sad eyes.

“Now tell me what's wrong,” he said.

She indicated a wrinkled sheet of paper beside her. When he picked it up, he saw that she'd printed out an email. The subject line mentioned Artie Ortega, the young cancer patient from the Christmas party.

His parents wrote that he had died three days after Christmas.

“Thanks to friends like you, our son had the happiest childhood a little boy could ask for. He was an angel and an inspiration in our lives, and he will be with us always.”

Like most doctors, Mark tried to distance himself from the fact that, no matter how much you wanted to heal the world, sometimes you failed. But Artie was twelve years old. It shouldn't happen.

“I'm sorry.” He wiped away a tear of his own.

Sam blew into a tissue. “Well, that's my news for the day.”

“I have some, too.”

She regarded him questioningly.

“I just told Owen Tartikoff…well, I more or less told him where to get off.” He swallowed. “I said I'm not running a tyranny that penalizes caring and dedicated physicians like you. I said you may be leaving over this, and that in my opinion, it's as much a blow to this hospital as losing him would be.”

She adjusted the baby's bottle. “How'd he react?”

“I have no idea. I had to leave a message.” Mark described the comments he'd read on the website and explained, “I reminded him that innovative fertility treatments are bound to generate controversy. Does he really want to work with an administrator who cuts and runs in a storm? Because if he does, he's a fool.”

Sam had stopped crying. “Did you clear this with Chandra?”

“Nope.” What was the point? No matter what she'd said, he'd have done this anyway.

Her forehead puckered. “That was risky. I don't suppose she'd fire you but…”

“I don't care if she does.”

“Liar!”

He refused to worry about that. Besides, he had other, more pressing business to deal with. “Do you realize nobody holds yard sales on New Year's Eve? How inconvenient.”

She set down the bottle. “Why do you care? You won the bet about your sister.”

“But I never collected my kiss. So I figured
one
of us ought to come out ahead.” Before she could question his logic, he fished his purchase from the bag and handed it to her. “How's this?”

With an air of wonder, she held up the glass candy dish shaped like a swan and studied the light filtering through the shades of blue. “It's lovely. Thank you.”

“It's only a reproduction, according to the clerk,” Mark said. “She mentioned something called Depression glass. I was too embarrassed to admit I had no idea what that is.” Since Sam was having trouble manipulating both baby and bowl, he transferred the blanket to his shoulder and lifted Connie gently.

“During the Great Depression, companies used to give away cheap glassware to lure buyers,” Sam explained. “Manufacturers put pieces in boxes of cereal, and movie theaters handed them out to ticket buyers. They've become popular with collectors.” From the center of the bowl, she removed a small item wrapped in newspaper. “What's this?”

“Open it.” His hands prickled.

From the paper, she plucked a rainbow-hued glass ring. “This is beautiful. What's it for?”

Now, Mark.
“Will you marry me?”

Sam regarded him questioningly. “Are you serious?”

“I love you. Whatever we're doing and wherever we're going, let's do it together. Our future shouldn't depend on other people's decisions.” He couldn't put it any more plainly than that.

She gave him a wry, tender smile. “I never pictured myself getting a proposal wearing old sweats covered with baby spit-up.”

“I hope that's a yes,” Mark said.

When she shook her head, his heart squeezed. “I can't do this to you. Mark, you'd never be happy working at a small clinic.”

He refused to give in, because he knew, more certainly than he'd ever known anything, that getting married was the right course for them both. “Just say yes and we'll figure out the details later.”

Sam sank back against the cushions. “I'm in no condition to give you an answer right now. Can you be patient with me?”

“Of course.” After a beat, he added, “For how long?”

“That's your idea of being patient?”

“You love me. Admit it.”

Sam's gaze fell on the email. She stroked the paper lightly. “Tell me something I don't understand. Why did he die and I lived?”

She must be thinking of her own battle with cancer, Mark realized. “You mean, when you were a kid?”

She nodded. “I made friends in the cancer ward. A girl a few years older than me, and a boy about Artie's age.
We'd buck each other up. Joke about our bald heads. Plan reunions for when we got better.”

She didn't have to spell it out. “Both of them died?”

“The same week.” Fresh tears dampened her cheeks. “I nearly gave up. I
did
give up. I went to bed and cried for days. I got mad at God, and felt sorry for myself, and missed my friends. It was all so wrong. Ironically, my own treatment was going well, but why did I deserve that?”

“Survivor's guilt.” Mark had run across the syndrome in his practice. Patients who'd lost loved ones, even in circumstances where they were blameless, sometimes questioned why they deserved to live.

“My mom pulled me out of it,” Sam continued. “She sat on the edge of the bed and told me I'd been spared for a reason. That I had the gift of healing. While I was always patching up animals and giving first-aid to my friends, I hadn't been sure I could handle medical school. After that day, I had no doubt. I was spared so I could save other lives.”

“And you'll go right on doing that,” Mark said. “Wherever you decide to practice.”

Sam clutched the paper. “I've been far luckier than I deserve. Yes, it was a blow learning about early menopause, but then I was handed these wonderful babies. I can't go on being selfish, indulging in a cozy job, a comfortable income, a nice house. I have to remember why I was kept alive.”

“Marrying me does not amount to thumbing your nose at fate,” Mark countered.

She gazed at him tearily. “You're the most wonderful man I've ever met, but living my way would make you miserable.”

He disagreed with every cell in his body. On the other
hand, she'd been right about being in no condition to make a life-changing commitment.

“Give the idea a chance to sink in. We'll talk about this later.” Since Connie had started squirming in his arms, Mark went and put the baby in her cradle. He paused to watch the three little ones sleeping, their breathing steady against the hum of the vaporizer.
I'm not letting you go. Or your mom, either.

Standing there, he asked himself a hard question: Was he prepared to move to Mexico to keep them? Could he give up the joy of running a hospital, of building new programs for the future, of harnessing the latest technology? Could he spend his days treating ailments in a struggling clinic, and his nights living in near-poverty?

Maybe for a while. But after that?

Marriage required finding a way to keep them both happy. Sam was right about that.

Well, this was New Year's Eve. In a new year, all things were possible.

He went and broke a twig off the Christmas tree. “What's that for?” Sam asked sleepily.

“My prize. It's not exactly mistletoe, but it's close enough.” Holding it above her head, he sat on the couch and claimed his kiss.

 

T
HE
M
ONDAY AFTER
N
EW
Y
EAR'S
was a holiday, and, of course, Mark went to the hospital anyway. Delivered babies, cheered the staff members who had to work and stewed about his inability to nail down Sam's agreement to marry him.

They'd spent the weekend together and walked to work today, taking turns pushing the babies in a double-decker triplet pram that her brother had sent for Christmas. To his amusement, they'd spotted some yard sale signs but
there hadn't been time to do more than glance at the objects displayed on tables and blankets. In any case, he'd glimpsed nothing much in the way of glassware.

“I do plan to buy a real ring, you know,” he'd commented to Sam as they approached the medical center.

“That isn't the issue, Mark. As you well know, you big gorgeous lug.” She'd kissed him, and never mind who might see. He rather regretted the discovery afterward that there hadn't been any witnesses.

Today, he wouldn't at all mind stirring up a bit of scandal. Mark the peacemaker, Mark the master of the artful compromise, really wanted to take a poke at somebody. He just had to figure out who.

Certainly not the woman who walked into his office early that afternoon. A tuft of pure white had replaced the sprinkling of gray in his sister's dark hair, but her skin had a healthy glow and her tremulous smile revealed teeth a lot whiter than when he'd last seen her.

“Sorry I'm late,” Bryn said.

 

T
HAT MORNING, THERE WAS ONLY
a trickle of patients. Sam used the extra time to clear out old papers that had accumulated in her desk drawers. Then, eating a sandwich at her desk, she started riffling through the box of holiday cards. Once she finished with each, she set it aside for children's craft projects at the day care center.

As always, the notes and photos warmed her. A gawky boy she'd treated for severe acne stood proudly in his high school graduation robes, his skin clear. His mother thanked Sam for referring him to a dermatologist. “I didn't know it then, but he was so depressed he'd considered suicide,” she wrote. “Until you told us, I had no idea that medication might cure him. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

A bad complexion might not pose as dramatic a threat as cancer, Sam mused, but it could have a profound effect on the patient. Tucking the note into a personal file of keepers, she read on.

 

“S
AM CALLED YOU
?” M
ARK ASKED
as he absorbed his sister's explanation that she'd spent Christmas with her mentor, fighting feelings of despair and self-loathing.

“Dr. Forrest told me to stop letting guilt run my life. Which is basically what my mentor said, but somehow it felt different, coming from a friend of yours.” Bryn faced him across a cafeteria table after a late lunch.

“That's interesting, considering that Sam lets guilt run
her
life,” Mark observed drily. But since he didn't feel right discussing Sam's issues with Bryn, he said, “I still don't understand why you didn't email or call.”

“Oh, Mark.” When she shook her head, crystal earrings flashed. She'd loaded on the costume jewelry, an effect their mother would have dismissed as gaudy. Now that he'd developed an appreciation for Depression glass, however, he enjoyed the glitter. “You have no idea how intimidating you are.”

“Me?” That didn't fit his image of himself. “I never yelled at you, did I?”

“You didn't have to,” his sister said ruefully. “I hated hearing that cranky edge to your voice. I felt like, if I ever pushed you hard enough, you might explode.”