The Holiday Triplets (3 page)

They crossed the pedestrian bridge over Coast Highway and reached the edge of the bluffs, where a long wooden staircase led down to the beach. A salty breeze stung Mark's cheeks as they descended and, beside him, Sam sucked in a couple of deep breaths.

“Is your family okay?” he asked as they crossed the beach parking area, largely deserted on a December weekday.

“As far as I know.” She sounded puzzled.

“You don't have to talk if you don't want to,” Mark said.

Sam peered across the sand toward the soothing lap of the surf. “What're we doing here?”

“Taking a break. Hey, are you lost in a daze?”

“I guess so.”

This was unlike her. It worried him.

They found rocky perches on adjacent boulders that bordered the sand. Overhead, a seagull wheeled, mewing
plaintively. Aside from a few hardy surfers plying their boards on the low waves, they were alone.

“I figured we could both use a breather,” Mark added.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” The fact that he had a bomb to drop on her bothered him more than a little. But in view of her distress, the clinic's situation could wait.

Samantha managed a weak smile. “You must think I've lost my mind.”

He seized on the opening to ask, “What happened?”

She leaned back on the rock, tilting her lightly tanned face toward the winter sun. “You remind me of a doctor on an old TV show. A kind, wise fellow everyone came to for advice.”

“Hardly anyone comes to me for advice,” Mark said wryly. “And if I give it to them, they don't follow it.”

Samantha chuckled. “The heck they don't.”

“Well, my patients might be the exception.”

“And the staff.”

“Not very often.”

She fell silent, as if debating how far to trust him. After a moment, she broke the lull. “I got bad news from my doctor.”

Clouds drifted over the sun, casting the beach into gray gloom. A chill ran through Mark. Since taking the helm at Safe Harbor, he'd worked his way through the personnel files of his medical staff, acquainting himself with their backgrounds. While they weren't required to disclose their personal medical histories, Samantha had done so freely.

He loosened his tie because he was having a hard time swallowing past the lump in his throat. “The cancer's returned?”

Her startled gaze met his. “No. No, that's not it, thank goodness.”

What a relief. “I'm glad to hear it.” Very glad.

He waited, in case she had more to say. Out on the water, a surfer rode a puny wave to shore, then stepped off the board with a disdainful grimace. “Pathetic waves,” Mark muttered in sympathy.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The surf. It's feeble.”

“What're you, a surfing critic?” she demanded.

“I used to surf in high school,” he said. “They have surf in Miami, you know.”

“I thought you played football.”

“The two sports aren't mutually exclusive.”

“I never said they were.” Samantha kicked at the sand.

The spray hit Mark's freshly shined shoes and sifted into his socks. “Thank you for that.”

“My pleasure.” She started to laugh. Almost in slow motion, her face crumpled. Finally she rasped out, “It's early menopause.”

So that was the bad news. “Because of the radiation and chemo?”

She nodded. “Nora advises against fertility treatments. She says they'd be hazardous.”

“I concur,” Mark said.

Fresh tears tracked after the ones that had dried in the breeze. “I didn't realize how much I counted on having children. On going through the whole experience of pregnancy.”

He checked the impulse to point out that she could adopt. You didn't console a woman who'd lost a child by telling her she could have more, and, in a sense, that's what had happened to Samantha. He'd learned from his patients
that the child in a woman's dreams might seem almost as real to her as a baby she'd held in her arms.

How ironic that, despite his medical expertise, he had nothing to offer. Except comfort.

Mark moved to her rock and slid his arm around her. When Sam's head drifted to his shoulder, he brushed a kiss across her hair.

She nestled closer, the scent of springtime enveloping him for a sweet instant before the breeze whipped it away. He couldn't resist tracing the delicate straightness of her nose with his lips, and when she blinked up at him, his mouth closed instinctively over hers.

The warmth drew him in, tantalizing against the cool air. This might be crazy, but Mark yielded to the longing to pull her onto his lap. She shifted readily, clinging to him, answering his kisses with a flick of tongue and a soft moan.

He felt himself stirring, coming alive, wanting Sam in a way he'd never allowed himself before. He lifted his head, breathing fast, and then touched his forehead to hers.

Although he wasn't sure about the wisdom of proceeding with such a combustible relationship, they could hardly deny their attraction. And they were both adults. “We should get together after work. Figure out where to go from here.”

“Where to go?” Sam drew back, a pucker forming between her eyebrows.

“I didn't mean literally. I meant…” Grim reality slapped Mark, along with a fresh blast of wind. How could he have forgotten about Chandra's call? “Wait. Before we discuss anything personal, I have a piece of news.”

“Hit me with it,” Sam replied, sounding more like her usual tart self. “Maybe that'll bring us both to our senses.”

Unfortunately, he reflected, it was more likely to bring them to the point of open warfare. “It's about the clinic…”

Samantha couldn't believe what she was hearing. Yet despite her dismay, she felt conflicted and uncertain. Where was the instantaneous flare of anger that should have powered her into action?

She'd worked hard to bring this counseling service to reality. While she admired her parents' devotion to the poor of another country, there were people hurting in this affluent area, too. Women in abusive relationships who needed someone to talk to, as well as confused teenagers and former foster children who lacked survival skills. They couldn't afford to pay and often shrank from paperwork and bureaucracies.

The Serra Clinic was unusually informal and flexible, using peer counselors who empathized with their clients. Right now, it depended entirely on volunteers, but Sam had hoped to raise funds and find sponsors so they could hire a professional staff, as well. Now, the entire project might be wiped out, or reduced to a catch-as-catch-can enterprise that limped along in second-rate facilities.

She ought to be furious with Mark, who she knew sided with the corporation. Instead, she kept wishing this awful displacement had waited a few more weeks or months so she could go on enjoying the comfort of his arms.

What was wrong with her?

You've received two severe blows in the space of an afternoon. No wonder you're reeling.

Ah, that was the Dr. Forrest side of her brain kicking in. But reeling or not, it didn't explain the way she'd reacted to Mark.

She'd felt a strong urge to skip out on their duties and do much more than kiss him. To pull off his tie, and his jacket, and the rest of his clothes—not in public of course, but…

“Sam? I understand why you're distracted but I'm getting a little worried.” The subject of her fantasy stopped pacing along the sand and regarded her with dark-eyed tenderness.

Sam wriggled as the rock dug into her bottom. “Because I'm not erupting like a volcano?”

“That would be a more typical reaction, yes.”

“I can't believe they're doing this to people in need. It's cruel.”

“It's business,” Mark replied. “The hospital has a core mission, and your project isn't part of it.”

“That's where we disagree—in spades.” There it was, a trace of irritation. Sam did her best to fan it into full-blown righteous anger. “You have to see how important counseling is.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Keep on compromising your values, and one day you won't have a soul left to call your own.”

“Oh, really?” he countered. “You should try compromising more often. You might actually accomplish something instead of spinning your wheels.”

“That's what you think I'm doing? Spinning my wheels?”

“Go ahead and pick an argument.” He seemed almost pleased. “I prefer that to seeing you defeated. Go on, Sam. Call me names if it makes you happy.”

Did he have to look so rumpled and obliging? Mark Rayburn, guiding spirit of the medical center, everyone's favorite go-to guy.
The enemy.
Yet she still failed to summon any significant fury.

“This is not one of my favorite days,” Sam muttered. “I wish I'd checked my horoscope before I got out of bed this morning.”

His chuckle reverberated. “I doubt that would have helped. But take the afternoon off. You've got a lot to think about.”

“I never take the afternoon off.”

“What were you planning to do that's so important?”

She tried to remember. Paperwork. The Christmas fundraiser. Oh, heavens. Was she even going to have a place to hold it? “How soon are they kicking us out?”

“We didn't discuss a deadline,” Mark said. “I'm sure I can hold off until after the first of the year, if you like.”

“Yes. For one thing, I need to break this to our volunteers.” And find somewhere to stow the computers and furniture they'd acquired. Samantha's brain whirred. “I guess I will go home for an hour or so. I can think better uninterrupted.”

They recrossed the footbridge in silence. Every now and then, a flicker of indignation crossed her mental horizon—did he have to break the news to her when she was already down and out?—but she had to acknowledge that delaying wouldn't have made things easier.

Sam hated seeing the issue from Mark's perspective. It made her so grumpy, she barely mumbled a farewell when they reached the edge of the hospital complex, and strode
off without a backward glance. Nevertheless, she sensed the moment when he stopped watching her and turned onto his own path.

She stemmed an impulse to call out. What would she say, anyway?
Next time I see you, I'll bring poison darts.

How strange it felt, walking home in the middle of the day when she ought to be at the hospital. She'd scarcely taken a day off since entering medical school. Even in the summers, she'd worked hard to pay the tuition. Putting two kids through medical school had been expensive for her parents, who'd spent most of their careers doing low-paid work among the poor.

Sam had vowed to continue their tradition, and hadn't entirely written off the idea of someday joining their clinic. But with student loans to pay, she'd had to accept a mainstream medical position and consign charity work to her free hours. Although she'd recently paid off the last of the loans, she still needed to build up at least a modest savings account.

There was, fortunately, an inheritance from her grandparents that she'd invested and saved as an emergency fund. Her parents had refused to let her touch it when she was younger, saying she should only draw on it if she absolutely had to.

She'd always figured the fund was there for the children she planned to have one day. If there'd been any reasonable chance that fertility treatments would work without destroying her health, she'd have spent the money without question now.

It might enable her to adopt. The prospect of a long search and the complex procedures involved seemed over-
whelming in her present state of mind, but at least, when she was ready, she had the money set aside.

Silently, she thanked her grandparents. And missed them.

Rounding a corner, Sam had to make way for two women chatting as they pushed strollers side by side along the sidewalk. Their babies, one in a darling miniature ski jacket and the other merry in a green-and-red plaid coat, leaned eagerly forward as if trying to embrace the world.

Feeling a sudden ache, Sam averted her gaze, only to find herself peering through a house window at a Christmas tree surrounded by gaily wrapped toys. Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be children and families.

A lump rose in her throat. She'd always assumed she would eventually have those things, too. And maybe she could, but not the way she'd expected.

To focus on her loss felt selfish in view of the clinic's crisis and her own fundamental good health.
Be grateful you aren't facing death.

The problem was, now she had to face life.

 

O
N
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON
, M
ARK SAT
in front of his computer, fingering the mouse as he sifted through applications for the position of fertility center director. Medical Center Management had asked him to narrow the field to three top candidates. Not an easy task. Among several dozen applicants, at least six offered excellent credentials. Not brilliant, perhaps, but close.

Leaning back, he tented his fingers and glanced through the window toward the harbor. Somehow the water managed to sparkle even in the weak winter sunlight.

Was it really only two days since he'd sat on the beach with Samantha? Felt like aeons.

Flexing his hands, he wondered at this nagging concern and the sense that he ought to do something for her. Yesterday, he'd sought a moment to talk to Sam after a staff meeting, but she'd hurried off to admit a patient. He wasn't sure what he'd have said, anyway. He had no magic wand to rescue the counseling clinic nor, despite all his training, could he remedy her medical condition.

Their kiss hadn't softened her attitude toward him. Still the same cautious distance. The same awareness that they stood, irrevocably, on opposite sides of a battlefield.

It had affected
him
, though. He missed her. Those sparks, that sudden burst of passion—his body heated at the memory.

You must have a death wish, Rayburn.

Mark returned his attention to the résumé on the screen. How ironic that all these fertility experts had no cure for early menopause, either.

Still, the woman whose credentials lay before him had an impressive background at Johns Hopkins and Yale. She specialized in genetic engineering that could enable parents to deliver healthy babies free of their families' devastating hereditary conditions. Her cover letter indicated she was interested in moving to southern California to be closer to her elderly parents.

Much as he admired her, Mark knew she'd be a better fit at a research-oriented university hospital. Safe Harbor needed a clinician concerned with applying proven techniques as well as developing and testing new ones.

The prospect of having the best possible staff and lab facilities thrilled him. He wasn't entirely sorry about taking over existing space at Safe Harbor, because it meant that the new center would be up and running much faster than
under the old plan. But he had to find the right director, and so far, respectable as these applicants were, none quite fit what he envisioned.

May Chong buzzed him on the intercom. “There's a woman on line three who says she's your sister. Do you want to pick up?”

A jolt of relief drove everything else from Mark's mind. “Absolutely.” Then a wave of apprehension closed over him. It had been five years since he'd seen her. What kind of condition was she in? Would she even be coherent? Was she calling from a jail, seeking bail money?

He punched the button and asked cautiously, “Bryn?”

“You moved,” she said without preamble. “I pictured you still in Florida.”

“I'd have left a forwarding address if I'd known where to send it.”

“I found you on the internet.”

Her voice had a huskier quality than he remembered. The last time they'd met he'd seen the toll that drugs and alcohol had taken on his sister, sprinkling her brown hair with premature traces of gray and leaving pouches beneath her eyes.

“You're easy to find,” she added. “Unlike me, I guess.”

“I hired a detective, but you dropped completely out of sight. Are you okay? Where are you?” He braced for her usual evasions.

“In Phoenix. I've been clean for two years.”

“Two years? Congratulations.” That sounded like an eternity, considering that she'd begun using as a teenager and hadn't stopped except for the few times he'd persuaded her to enter rehab programs. She must be thirty-three now. Hard to imagine his baby sister being that old. “I wish you'd let me know sooner.”

“I wanted to be sure I could do this on my own.” In the background, he heard the rumble of a large engine.

“Are you at a truck stop?” That would be typical, sad to say. According to the detective, his sister had put her health and life at risk, picking up men for drug money.

“I work as a receptionist for a trucking company,” she told him. “Mark, I don't blame you for doubting me. I put you through hell. But I've found a group that supports me. It's called Celebrate Recovery—kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous, only it's at a church.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Beneath her casual tone, he sensed that she'd called for a reason. “I'm happier than I can say to learn that you're all right. You're the only family I have.”

“No wife?” Bryn asked. “I was hoping for a few nieces and nephews by now.”

“Not yet. I'm still marveling at the idea that a home can be a refuge instead of a war zone.” Now, where had that come from?

“So you choose to be alone?”

“I'm not alone. I run a hospital and see patients. Long hours, but it's what I always dreamed of.” Enough talking about himself. He wanted to find out more about his sister. “I was going to ask—”

“Why I'm calling,” she finished. “Because I always call with a motive, right?”

“That is the pattern, yes.” Blinking buttons on the phone caught Mark's attention. People must be trying to reach him. Thank goodness his secretary had the sense to deflect them.

“One of the steps in our recovery is making amends to people we've harmed. And you're the person I've hurt the most.”

“You want to make amends?” He didn't see how a
person could atone for so many years of disappointment and pain. Still, he loved her in spite of that.

“Maybe not for your sake, but for mine—if that's okay?” Bryn added quickly. “The last thing I want is to cause you any more problems.”

Forgiveness might not come easily, but Mark was willing to try. “I'd be happy to see you.”

“I was hoping…how about Christmas?” she blurted. “I could drive out there.”

“That's what, seven or eight hours?” A long trek for one person. “I'll send you a plane ticket.”

“No, Mark. This is my responsibility.” She spoke with a maturity he'd never heard from her before. “I should arrive by late afternoon. But don't let me disrupt your plans if you were going to spend Christmas with someone.”

That reminded him of Sam's fundraiser. He'd promised to be there, but that didn't preclude welcoming his sister. “You should come,” Mark told her. “It won't be a proper Christmas without you.”

“I don't deserve…” Her words choked off. She cleared her throat. “You're the most wonderful brother in the world.”

“Just get here in one piece.” He gave her his cell phone number. “You can reach me anytime.”

She provided her own number. “I'm not going to disappear again. This is for keeps.”