yet so little. But she could give the people waiting at home some reassurance. She’d brought Nick to a good place. She hung up and, trying to ignore her aching feet, headed back to his room.
A nurse hurried out of his door. Was something wrong? Propelled by fear, Mallory dashed forward, then halted in the doorway, unable to take another step, as a hauntingly familiar voice reached her ears.
He sat by the bed, his head bent close to Nick’s. He was talking baseball and he had the boy’s full attention.
He must have come directly from the airport because he wore a white dress shirt that contrasted starkly with his tanned skin. His shoulders were slightly broader than she remembered, his chest wider, but no gray marred the thick, dark hair. The hand that lay lightly on the bed rails was the same, too—lean, strong.
He hadn’t changed. And oh, God, she’d never realized how much Nick looked like him. The shape of his face, the way he cocked his head to listen, even the half smile. She’d never let herself notice. Would he?
Please, no, she begged. She must have made a sound of supplication, because he looked up.
And for the first time in eleven years, she stared into his eyes.
Chapter Three
He didn’t recognize her.
His expression was cordial, but she saw no hint of awareness in his gaze.
What made her think he would remember? What made her believe she’d meant enough to him to remain in his mind? Pride forced her to square her shoulders and step into the room. She’d deal with her feelings of hurt and anger later. What mattered now was Nick.
As she came into the room, Kent smiled and extended his hand. “Mrs. Bren—”
His hand froze in midair. He glanced at the chart on the stand beside him, then up again. “Mallory Brenner…Mallory Roseman?”
Her breath backed up in her lungs. He did remember her after all. Silently, she nodded.
“You…cut your hair,” he blurted, his words seeming to surprise him as much as they did her. His cheeks flushed, and abruptly his eyes swung back to his hand, still suspended. He reached out and, reluctantly, Mallory did the same.
Their hands met above the bed where Nicholas—where their son—lay staring at them with curiosity. “You guys know each other?”
“We did, years ago,” Mallory muttered and managed a casual shrug. She hoped she communicated that whatever had happened between them was inconsequential and done with long ago. Realizing she still grasped Kent’s hand, she let it go and stepped back. What she needed now was his medical skill. “About Nick—” she began.
“Yes. Why don’t you sit down,” Kent suggested, “and we’ll talk about what happens next.”
His voice was calming, and Mallory remembered again the little boy he’d spoken to at the pool that long-ago summer morning. She took a chair beside the bed.
Kent turned to Nick. “Nick, you’ve had some people sticking you today, and they tell me you’ve been very brave.”
“Is the sticking over?” Nick asked.
“I’m afraid not. Tomorrow morning you’re going to have a spinal tap.” Gently, matter-of-factly, he explained the procedure.
Nick’s hand slid to Mallory’s and clasped it tightly, but his eyes were glued to Kent’s. When Kent asked if he understood, he nodded. “I won’t cry,” he said. “At least I’ll try not to.”
“Good,” Kent said, smiling at him. “And I won’t spring any surprises on you. Whatever we have to do to lick this illness, I’ll tell you beforehand. Is that a deal?”
“Deal,” the boy said, and Mallory saw with relief that Kent had won his trust.
Kent turned to her now. “The usual course of treatment for AML, Nick’s type of leukemia, is several rounds of chemotherapy, then a transplant…”
“Transplant?” She didn’t know much about transplants except that there was always a chance of rejection.
Kent seemed to sense her fear. “Transplants are getting to be commonplace in many types of cancer,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll meet lots of kids who’ve had them and are doing quite well.”
Calmer now, Mallory nodded.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Kent continued, “I’ll go over the results of the tests and talk more about the treatment with you and Nick…and Nick’s father.” He glanced toward the door. “Is he here with you?”
Mallory didn’t allow herself to wince at the phrase Nick’s father. “My husband died three years ago,” she said flatly.
Something flashed in Kent’s eyes, disappeared. “I’m sorry. I met him, I believe.” Without glancing at the chart, he said, “Dean,” and Mallory nodded.
He picked up Nick’s chart. “See you tomorrow, pal,” he said and ruffled the boy’s hair.
When he left, Mallory let out a long breath. She was over the worst. She’d survived the first meeting. From now on she’d be fine, as long as they didn’t dredge up old memories that might lead to dangerous questions. And why should they? They were doctor, patient and patient’s mother. She suspected Kent would want to keep it that way as much as she did. Besides, he surely had a life beyond the hospital. Eleven years had passed. He must have a wife and…and children.
“Mom.” Nick’s voice brought her out of her reverie.
“Yes, hon.”
“How do you know Doctor Berger?”
Trust her inquisitive son to ask. “He, uh, spent a summer in Valerosa a long time ago. I met him then.”
Nick eyed her with interest. “Was that before I was born?”
About nine months, she thought with a pang. “Uh-huh.”
“Did you like him?”
Mallory felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Yes, he was very nice.”
“I like him, too,” Nick said. “I’m glad he’s going to be my doctor.”
On that, she could agree. “Me, too.”
“He’s going to make me well,” her son said, with total confidence.
Mallory bit her lip. Oh, God, she hoped so. “Yes, he is. Now, why don’t you get some sleep? You have a big day tomorrow.” She bent to fluff his pillow and drop a kiss on his forehead.
He caught her hand. “Mommy.”
Rarely did Nick call her Mommy anymore. He’d pronounced himself too big for that several years ago. She squeezed his hand. “Yes?”
“Will you sit here by me till I get to sleep?”
“I’d like that,” Mallory said, “and maybe we could hold hands, okay?”
“Yeah.”
Mallory kept watch as he shut his eyes and fell asleep.
Only when the room was still did she allow her thoughts to drift back to Kent. He’d turned out to be the doctor she always imagined he’d be, with a bedside manner worthy of Albert Schweitzer. But why did he have to look like every woman’s fantasy lover?
Why couldn’t he have lost his hair or developed a paunch? That would make things so much easier.
Whack.
Kent served the ball against the wall of the racquetball court and when Stan Ferguson returned the shot, whipped it back with another satisfying smack. He slammed the ball again and again, the whoosh of air loud in his ears.
Mallory. Why did she have to be as pretty as ever, her mouth still so enticing,