The Holiday Triplets (2 page)

Hence this latest proposal, he presumed. While Mark supported the clinic's mission, he considered it peripheral to the hospital's central purpose. Plus, it was always risky to let Samantha speak to the press. She had a gift for stirring up controversy.

“We've discussed this before,” he reminded her as they reached the fourth floor landing. “To put the clinic on a solid financial footing, you can't rely on nickel-and-dime contributions. You need major corporate sponsors.”

“Mark!” She turned so abruptly he nearly ran into her. “How can I attract sponsors without publicity?”

He'd always appreciated her slim, athletic figure, but
rarely had been this close. When she tossed back her blond mane, Mark had to drag his brain back to their conversation.

“Through working quietly behind the scenes. Cultivating contacts. Making presentations.” That was how the business world operated.

Sam remained planted one step above him. Unless Mark bodily shifted her aside, he was trapped. And he wasn't eager to put his hands on her body. Actually, he was, but he shouldn't be. “I am
not
going to spend Christmas assembling a PowerPoint presentation, I'm going to spend it throwing a party! Since I can't celebrate with my parents in Mexico—” both doctors, they ran a charity clinic south of the border “—let's hold a fiesta here. Piñatas, colorful paper flowers and spicy food.”

“It does sound like fun,” Mark reluctantly agreed.

Samantha dropped her hands to his shoulders, her face inches from his, and teased him with a smile. If he didn't know her better, he might suspect her of flirting. “It will be.”

He'd better concede the point before he did something insane, like kiss her in the stairwell. “I'll authorize additional security and cleaning, and I'm sure our public relations staff will be glad to spread the word. But you'll have to come up with the food and entertainment budget.”

She bit her lower lip, her brain clearly working hard. “I know a few sources I could tap.”

“Glad we see eye to eye on this.” Given their relative positions, he couldn't resist adding, “Literally.”

Sam cocked her head. “You might be a fun guy if you lightened up, Mark.”

“Did I ever tell you I used to be a stand-up comic?”

That startled her into taking a step backward. “You're kidding!”

“Actually, yes.” Score one for his side. “See you later.” Striding past, he went up the steps, his senses ablaze from the encounter.

For heaven's sake, they'd been discussing business. She'd only been trying to wheedle support out of him, not get him hot and bothered. Yet, intentionally or not, that's what she'd accomplished.

Mark straightened his tie, which probably didn't need it. Nevertheless, the act reasserted his sense of control as he stepped onto the fifth floor, home to the hospital's main offices. Immediately, he felt his administrator persona settle comfortably over him.

Enough kidding around. He had a job to do, a job he loved.

In the executive suite, his secretary, May Chong, handed Mark a sheaf of phone messages. As he was returning them, the center's public relations director, Jennifer Martin, popped into his office with encouraging statistics about the hospital's toy drive. A few minutes later, staff attorney Tony Franco arrived with a question about a lawsuit. Mark encouraged him to press for arbitration.

He spent most of the morning going over projections for the new fertility center. Although Safe Harbor had remodeled its main building and bragged publicly about its fertility services, it wouldn't achieve world-class status until it recruited a renowned expert to head a showcase program. He or she would bring additional staff and require more lab and office space, so plans were moving rapidly to acquire and renovate the dental building.

Mark felt the adrenaline pulsing through his system. He loved the challenge of pulling together all these different elements and creating something that could enrich people's lives.

Shortly before lunch, May put through a call from
Chandra Yashimoto, vice president of Medical Center Management, Inc., in Louisville. As usual, she wasted no time on small talk. “We have a problem.”

A quick mental survey of current issues failed to raise any red flags. “What sort of problem?”

“The owner of the dental building has filed for bankruptcy. We're back to square one on the acquisition.”

Damn and double-damn. Yet selling the structure would be in the best interest of the man's creditors. “We're so close to inking a deal. Surely we can come to an understanding.”

“You've never dealt with a federal bankruptcy court before, have you? The whole thing could drag on for years.” Chandra released an impatient breath. “We have to look elsewhere.”

No sense debating the point; they needed to move forward with all due speed. “I'll start researching other buildings on the market.” They ought to be able to find something within a ten-to-fifteen-minute drive. Safe Harbor was part of bustling Orange County, with a population of more than three million.

“That will throw us months behind schedule.” The veep went on to say that a delay would cost a fortune in lost revenue. She was determined to hire a director and get the new center operational as quickly as possible. “We've decided to use facilities we already own. For starters, we'll be taking over that office suite on your floor, the one where you put the memorial—whatchamacallit—counseling clinic.”

Sam's center? Well, it didn't
have
to be next to the administrative suite. “We could move it next door to the medical building. I believe there are a couple of vacant offices.”

“Our new director and his or her colleagues will need those. That's valuable space, Mark.”

He reviewed his rapidly dwindling options. “We have an empty storage area in the basement that can be fixed up.” Sam would simply have to make the best of the situation.

“I've earmarked that space for an embryology lab,” Chandra said. “The clinic's going to have to find other quarters.
Away
from the hospital.”

Mark barely stifled a groan. This could mean the end of Sam's dream. Perhaps not immediately; she might find space at some other facility in town. But the clinic's association with the hospital gave it prestige and prominence. Without those, she was unlikely to attract more than subsistence-level funding.

“And, Mark?” Chandra's voice roused him from his grim reflections.

“Yes?” he asked warily.

“Put a muzzle on that pediatrician, will you? We can't have her blowing this thing out of proportion.”

“I'll do my best.” As if you could muzzle Dr. Samantha Forrest.

After he hung up, Mark leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The acoustical tile offered neither inspiration nor reassurance.

Instead, he kept seeing Sam holding her fiesta in the parking lot, proclaiming to the press that Scrooge and the Grinch had merged into the shape of Mark Rayburn, M.D.

No wonder he hated Christmas.

Before heading for her office next door, Sam paid a visit to the hospital's intermediate-care nursery. Adorable in their tiny caps and booties, the triplets lay in side-by-side bassinets. The low-level lights and quiet environment were designed to reduce stress for the infants, but to grown-ups like her, simply gazing at little Connie, Courtney and Colin was enough to lower her blood pressure.

Sam loved those perfect little fingers and hands. Even the wrinkly, pouchy appearance that distinguished newborns filled her with delight. She found herself humming an old lullaby. “Where are you going, my little one, little one…”

Okay, enough self-indulgence. Time to get moving.

Despite her resolve, she spent much of the morning thinking about kids. That was understandable, considering that her hours were spent peering into small ears, discussing immunization schedules with concerned parents, answering questions about breastfeeding, evaluating rashes, assessing infant development and writing a couple of referrals to specialists.

But she wasn't only thinking about other people's kids. She was thinking about her own—or, rather, the fact that she was thirty-six and hadn't had any yet.

These past few weeks, the combination of holiday
celebrations and her annual physical had reminded her of how quickly life was racing by. With current technology, she still had another five years or so to bear children. But there was the not-so-small matter of deciding whether to go it alone or put more effort into finding a husband.

She'd had a couple of serious relationships, both with men she'd met through her activities in championing children's causes. Shared zeal made for hot sex—Samantha could attest to that. Ultimately, though, either the passion had cooled along with the cause, or she'd come to realize the guy was drawn to her energy and purpose because he lacked sufficient of his own. She needed a man strong enough to stand beside her as an equal.

On the other hand, not one so bullheaded he was always blocking her path. An image of Mark on the stairway this morning kept appearing on her mental screen. Since the hospital's new owner hired him as administrator, he'd become Public Enemy Number One as far as she was concerned.

Then, a few weeks ago, she'd stopped into the nursery to admire Tony Franco's baby, and spotted Mark cradling the newborn in his arms. His face illuminated with tenderness, he'd cooed to the little girl as if she were his own daughter. Sam had slipped away, oddly moved.

Why didn't Mark have a wife and children? How unfair that men could ignore the biological clock that ticked so loudly for women.

Well, no point in woolgathering, Samantha thought as she washed up following her last patient of the morning. She had a busy afternoon ahead, dealing with departmental paperwork and formulating plans for the Christmas fundraiser. She felt certain she could count on the support of the PR director, since the clinic was named for the baby
son that Jennifer Serra—Jennifer Martin, since her recent marriage—had lost during a troubled teen pregnancy.

Sam decided to see if she could catch Jennifer for a quick brainstorming session. As she ducked into the hall, however, her nurse called from behind, “Don't forget!”

“Don't forget what?” Sam swung back toward the ever-efficient Devina Gupta.

“Dr. Kendall wants to see you,” said the nurse, a bronze-skinned woman who looked too young to have a son in medical school. “I've told you three times.”

Oh, bother. The gynecologist had run tests during Sam's checkup and insisted on discussing the results in person. In Sam's opinion, becoming a doctor ought to excuse you from undergoing medical tests. It should make you immune to all illnesses, too.

But of course it didn't.

“I'll stop by her office,” Sam promised, checking her watch. Nora Kendall's office was located one floor below. If she dawdled a few more minutes, she should be safe because Nora would probably leave for lunch.

“I'll call to let her know you're coming,” Devina said. “I'm sure she'll wait.”

Even the stubbornest person couldn't win every time. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Better hurry!”

Reluctantly, Samantha obeyed her nurse.

 

P
ASTRAMI HEAPED ON RYE
. Did a pickle count as a vegetable? And mustard. That had a few nutrients, right?

Mark relished his meal at a corner table in the hospital cafeteria while skimming the latest medical journal. He also kept an eye open for Samantha. Not that he would break the devastating news to her in public, but he hoped to track her movements and catch her on the way back to her
office. With luck, he might find an isolated setting where her outraged screams wouldn't attract too much notice.

She often ate with Lori and Jennifer, who were talking earnestly over their chicken-à-la-something. Judging by Lori's quivering mouth, the subject must be Dr. Sellers.

The cause of their breakup was no secret. As the eldest of six girls, Lori had spent her teen years serving as second mother to five argumentative siblings. She'd sworn off having kids, and her fiancé, who'd recently completed an exhausting residency, had agreed he wanted to spend his free time relaxing with the woman he loved, just the two of them.

Then he'd changed his mind. Mark wasn't sure why, but since the neonatologist spent most of his time around babies, no doubt he'd eventually come to embrace these magnificent little people, so filled with promise and love and…

Am I talking about Jared or about myself?

Mark loved babies and kids of all ages. Delightful images of youngsters he'd delivered filled a folder in his computer. He'd even had a few named after him.

But fathering one? Not a good plan. While he'd escaped his family's weakness for substance abuse, he had no desire to risk passing it on to another generation. Especially since he'd learned the hard way that there were some battles you couldn't win, no matter how much you loved a person.

Besides, he had no time for children of his own. His baby was the new fertility center.

In front of him, the magazine drifted shut. Just as well, since he hadn't read a word.

Mark chewed the last bite of his sandwich. Amazingly, no one had interrupted his meal with an emergency or even so much as a question. That had to be a first.

A glance showed Jennifer and Lori still conferring
without their third musketeer. Perhaps Sam was still with patients, or she'd decided to run errands instead of eating. But, he couldn't afford to put this off. News of the dental building's involvement in a bankruptcy had already reached Tony, who'd come in to make sure Mark had received word. Sam needed to be prepared.

Mark cleared his dishes and set out for the building next door.

 

“I
DON'T SUPPOSE IT HELPS
to point out that things could be worse,” Nora Kendall told Sam ruefully. They were sitting in Nora's office, beneath photos of babies and framed diplomas proclaiming her expertise in obstetrics, gynecology and fertility.

Fertility. The word cut like a scalpel.

“I know I'm lucky to still be cancer-free after twenty years,” Sam conceded. “But… Are you certain it's early menopause?”

“Would you like me to go over the results again?”

Sam waved away the offer. Despite her question, she understood the test results all too well. She'd known this was possible; she simply hadn't believed it would happen to her.

Girls who survived cancer treatment as teens were more than a dozen times as likely as other women to suffer menopause before age forty. The greatest risk was for those who, like Sam, had received heavy doses of radiation and chemotherapy to battle Hodgkin's lymphoma. The damage to the ovaries couldn't be repaired.

“What about fertility treatments?” With no husband on the horizon, that would mean using donor sperm. Not Sam's preference, but if it was her only chance to conceive…

Compassion shaded Nora's expression. “At this stage,
you'd require donated eggs and heavy-duty hormone treatment. In view of your medical history, I don't recommend it,” she added gently.

The instinct to fight swelled in Sam. It was the same instinct that had saved her as a teenager and by which she'd lived ever since. But she had to be reasonable. “You think trying to have a baby might harm my health?”

“That is definitely a concern.”

“I don't want to be an idiot about this,” she conceded.
And I know the dangers as well as anyone.

Nora showed no impatience, although she must be hungry. “This is a heavy blow to absorb. If you strongly want to try for a baby, I'll do my best to help you.”

Sam tossed back her head. Despite her dejected mood, she relished the bounce of long hair, which she never took for granted. Years ago, she'd put on a brave face about baldness and colorful scarves, but in reality she'd hated them.

“No, thanks. You're right, it could be worse. These past few months, when I started getting irregular periods and night sweats, I was afraid the cancer had returned.” Night sweats and swollen glands were the symptoms that had first alerted her to the lymphoma. “I'm darn lucky.”

“You pooh-poohed the idea of a recurrence during the exam,” Nora pointed out.

“I'd hate to act like a crybaby,” Sam explained. “Besides, it's counterproductive to dwell on things we can't control.”

“Counterproductive but natural,” her doctor responded. “Don't feel you have to hold everything inside and put on a brave face for my sake. Sometimes it's healthy to cry.”

“Not for me, it isn't.” Because her voice sounded shaky, Sam rose quickly. “I've kept you long enough. Go eat.”

“I don't mind skipping lunch,” Nora said.

“It's hard to be good-natured with patients when you're hungry.” Sam had learned that from experience. “Speaking of eating, you're invited to an open house at the counseling clinic on Christmas Day.”

“Christmas? Gee, I'd love to come, but I promised to fix the turkey for my aunt's dinner.”

Oh, dear. Perhaps because her family lived far away, Sam had blithely figured most of her friends, at least the unmarried ones, would be available. But she just couldn't focus on that now.

“We'll miss you. Well, thanks for everything.” Sam grabbed her purse and bolted for the door. If she lingered one more second, she might break down.

Outside on the walkway, she dragged in a series of deep breaths, trying to ease the sensation of having been punched in the stomach. She would never feel a baby move inside her. Never have any funny-awful pregnancy stories to share with her patients. Never experience the wonder of breastfeeding.

Every day, she cuddled infants and went nose to nose with inquisitive toddlers. For their parents and for teen mothers like Candy, she served as the sage counselor. Sam felt like a sailor lost at sea, dying of thirst while floating on an ocean of undrinkable water.

She wished her parents were here, and her brother, Benton, a cardiologist who lived in her hometown of Seattle with his wife and two kids. They'd rallied behind her before, and they'd do it now. Benton had urged her more than once to relocate to his area, where she had a lot of old friends. The last time she'd visited her parents' clinic in Mexico, she'd also given serious consideration to moving there to work with children in need.

Yet for once she didn't feel like turning to her family. How could they understand? Mom had conceived and
given birth easily, and Benton and his wife had produced their kids on a prearranged schedule.
First a boy, then a girl, two and a half years apart.

Self-pity was not her style, Samantha reminded herself. Neither was resenting other people's good fortune. What she ought to do was square her shoulders, lift her chin and go comfort Lori about
her
problems.

“Oh, there you are.” The baritone voice gave her a start.

Mark Rayburn shouldn't sneak up on people. Well, with a delivery truck rumbling across the quadrangle and a medical rescue copter whirring toward the hospital's helipad, perhaps he hadn't actually needed to sneak.

“Samantha?” he prodded, looking much too solid and comforting for her fragile peace of mind. “Are you all right?”

She tried to shrug and look nonchalant. Useless.

“No,” she gasped. “No, Mark, I'm not all right.”

Then, to her utter humiliation, she burst into tears.

 

I
N THE TWO YEARS
M
ARK HAD
worked with the fiery Samantha Forrest, he'd never before glimpsed this lost, little-girl expression. Impulsively, he gathered her into his arms. Felt her collapse against his chest, registered the trace of tears against his neck and tried to soothe the shudders wracking her body. It hurt to see her in such pain.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

The Sam he knew would have volleyed back a sharp answer. Today, she simply went on pouring out grief as if she'd bottled it up for years.

Around them, the medical complex lay calm. During the noon hour, no patients were arriving to notice her distress, and the noise of the helicopter covered her sobs. But any
moment that would change, and he suspected Sam would be embarrassed if others witnessed her in this state.

They ought to go somewhere private, as long as that didn't require navigating a hallway or passing a receptionist. Much as Mark loved this place and its people, he deplored the pervasive gossip.

“Let's take a walk,” he suggested.

Sam gave a faint nod. She clung to his arm unsteadily as he guided her between the buildings and through a landscaped park strip.

He wondered again what had upset her so badly. It couldn't be related to the counseling clinic, because if she'd learned about that, she'd have railed at him rather than fallen apart. The loss of a patient? That certainly could be upsetting. Still, he'd never seen her react at such a personal level.