A Doctor's Vow. Christine Rimmer
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in an injured tone, “Andrew. I just cannot believe that you would do such a thing.”
Andrew said nothing. He went on staring down at his soaked bedroom slippers and continued to gnaw away at his poor lip.
Even Ryan, who knew less about children than he probably should, given that he had three of them, could see that his son wasn’t about to explain himself now. He suggested, “Lily, it really is late. How about putting him back to bed now? Let him sleep on this tonight. And we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
“Well, of course.” She held out her hand, and wiggled her fingers impatiently. “Come with me, young man.” Andrew’s jaw had that mulish set it sometimes got. Still, he pushed back the sleeve of the too-big jacket and put his hand into his grandmother’s. Lily sent the doctor an embarrassed smile. “I am so sorry about this.”
Ronni smiled back. “There’s no harm done.”
Clucking and sighing, Lily led Andrew back upstairs.
Once the two had disappeared on the upper floor, Ryan turned to the little doctor. She looked at him as if she wasn’t sure what to do next.
He felt the same. He should probably thank her and tell her good-night. But then again, maybe he ought to see if she could provide a few details about what his son had just done. He cleared his throat. “I know it’s late. But do you think you could give me a few minutes before you go back to the guest house?”
“Sure.”
“Do you…want to take off your coat?”
She blinked and put her hand protectively against her chest. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ll need it again in a few minutes, anyway.”
“Right.” He probably shouldn’t have asked. He could see the collar of a robe beneath the coat, but still, taking it off might have felt too much like undressing.
Undressing.
What had made him think of that, for pity’s sake?
Damn, this was awkward—the two of them standing here by the front door in their pajamas, at two in the morning.
Maybe if they got more comfortable…
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go into my study. We can sit down in there.”
She looked at him for a moment, her head tipped to the side. He was absolutely certain she was going to say no. But then she said quietly, “That would be fine.”
He gestured toward a door a few feet from the bottom of the stairs. “Right through there.” He led the way at first, but then stopped to open the door for her and flick on the light. “Have a seat.” She went on ahead. He smelled the cool dampness of rain as she passed. Rain and something else, a faint perfume, as inviting as it was subtle and fresh.
She took one of the two leather wing chairs opposite the desk.
He went around the desk and dropped into the big, deeply tufted swivel chair behind it.
Once he’d sat down he said, “So…” And then he wasn’t quite sure how to go on.
She pulled herself straighter and cast a glance around—at the leather-bound books that lined the bookcases, at the arrangement of family photos that stood in contrasting frames on the credenza a few feet away. At the broad expanse of desk between them, which was empty except for a leather blotter and a marble pen stand.
He knew what she was thinking. “I don’t use this room too much,” he said. “I have my office at Memorial.”
She made a small sound of understanding. “It’s a good room for work. Attractive, masculine…and comfortable. Or it would be comfortable, with a little more clutter.”
“It’s hard to clutter up a room you’re never in.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She shifted a little in the chair. And then she waited, giving him a chance, he knew, to take the lead. As a general rule, he was a man who had no problem taking the lead.
But for some reason, right now, he didn’t seem to know quite where to start. He cleared his throat. “I guess I’m hoping that you know something I don’t—about what my son just did.”
She looked down at her flashlight—and then leaned forward a little to set it on the edge of the desk. “There honestly isn’t much to tell. He came over to check me out—in the middle of the night. It was a case of iffy judgment and bad timing, that’s all.”
“Wait a minute. The way I see it, he broke in to the guest house.”
She shook her head sharply. “No, he didn’t. Not exactly, anyway. To him, the guest house is part of his home. He didn’t really think of it as someone else’s house. He even knew where the key was—where his mother had left it, under a flowerpot outside.”
“Fine. He didn’t break in. He had a key. But I think the real question is, why did he let himself in at all?”
“He said he wanted to make sure about me. He wanted to be certain I was no threat to him or his family.”
“Where would he get the idea that you were a threat?”
She sat back again then and smoothed her coat a little more neatly over her knees. “My guess? He didn’t think I was a threat, not really. But he still had to be sure.”
“But you said that he said—”
“Mr. Malone, your son is a very mature, very responsible little boy. I really do think he was only doing what he said he was doing—making certain that I was okay, that I wouldn’t do harm to him or his family. He’s realized now that, at least while I’m staying there, the guest house isn’t part of his house. He sees that letting himself into my bedroom in the middle of the night is not acceptable. And he’s promised me he’ll never do such a thing again.”
“He promised you.”
“Yes. He did.”
“You sound as though you believe him.”
“I do believe him. And since we’re on the subject, there’s another thing…” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what, but she told him, anyway. “It would mean a lot to him if you would call him Drew.”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words. He asked me to call him Drew—and he said he keeps telling you and his grandmother that his name is Drew now.”
Ryan caught her implication. It didn’t particularly please him. “But we don’t listen, right?”
She shrugged. “Often, children of Drew’s age feel a need to improve on their names. Maybe it’s the urge to take more control of their lives as they mature. Or maybe just part of the natural process of self-definition. Whatever. All of a sudden, Arlenes become Leenas. Jasons insist that you have to call them Jake.” She had a dimple on the right side of her mouth. He watched it deepen as she grinned. “I modified my own name at about Drew’s age, to tell you the truth. I remember constantly telling people, ‘Not Veronica. Ronni. Ronni with an i.’ The change has stuck, too.”
She looked so pleased with herself. He couldn’t resist prodding her a little. “It made that much difference to you, to be called Ronni instead of your real name?”
She came right back. “Ronni is my real name.”
He shrugged. “I’m only saying, what’s wrong with Veronica?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to be called Ronni.”
“With an i.”
“Right.”
“But why?”
She let out a slightly irritated little grunt. “I thought I just told you. I needed…to redefine myself. On my own terms.”
“When you were Drew’s