The Pull Of The Moon. Darlene Graham
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eyes. What she couldn’t express aloud was the terrible fear that she would always be manless, childless, loveless, and the reason why.
“The trouble is,” Carol said softly, “you’re a human being. And a female human being to boot. And when you saw that hunk in the E.R. tonight, maybe he reminded you of what you’re missing.” She gave Danni’s arm a squeeze, and Danni nodded but didn’t lower her other arm. Admitting it was bad enough; she couldn’t look into Carol’s eyes at the same time. And she couldn’t possibly tell her the rest of it, could she?
“And, let’s see, you’ll be thirty-three on your next birthday,” Carol continued.
“Thirty-four,” Danni corrected in a croaky whisper.
“Right. And at thirty-four, it’s time for a reality check. Your biological clock is ticking away. You’ve seen this reaction often enough in patients. Why should you be any different?”
Danni gave a rueful laugh. “I always said I’d never have kids. Not after—”
“Not after what?” Carol prompted when Danni wouldn’t continue.
But Danni couldn’t go into that story now—not with patients out there needing her. “It’s a long story. The point is, lately, my biological clock’s been bonging louder than Big Ben!” She lowered her arm and looked at Carol, frustration with herself momentarily overcoming her pain. “But don’t you think thirty-four’s kind of young for that? I mean, rationally I know—”
“Rationality has very little to do with some things, hon. Maybe it’s not so much biology as other factors. As you said, your practice is booming. You’ve proved yourself here at Holy Cross and now you’re getting ready to take on a couple of partners. Looks like you’ve got it made, career-wise.” Carol emphasized the last words.
Danni pulled the recliner upright. “You’re right. I’ve been striving for so long, I haven’t had time to think about my personal life. And suddenly, now that I’ve succeeded...”
“You want love, and a family, perhaps, along with everything else.” Carol shrugged her shoulders. “Wanting to love and be loved is not exactly a crime.”
Danni felt a tiny bubble of hope rising. Yeah. Love. Why shouldn’t Dr. Danni have a family just like everybody else? Just like all her patients? “Yeah,” she said aloud. “Why shouldn’t I have a baby of my own—”
“And a man, too?” Carol suggested.
“Oh. Oh, yeah. And the man, too,” Danni said vaguely. She had a sudden flashback to the fireman propping his head up on his muscular arm, only this time the image didn’t make her laugh, and neither did the memory of his compelling.blue eyes.
Carol gave her a dubious look. “I don’t understand you twenty-first-century women. When I was your age, babies were the by-product of the man, not the other way around.”
Danni grinned, feeling in control of herself again. “When you were my age, you and George had already created a lot of by-products.”
Carol chuckled. “Blame it on the moon, honey. But I wouldn’t trade my four boys for anything.” Then she patted Danni’s arm. “Listen, speaking of the moon, you’d better catch some sleep. A couple of the patients are already dilated to eight.”
“Right.” Danni was relieved to close her eyes, because she was afraid that if they talked about men and babies anymore, the tears might start again. And she hated tears.
She’d convinced herself long ago that she could not afford to let tears begin. Not while she was at work. And long ago, she’d decided that she could never risk telling anyone about her sister’s death—not if she wanted to remain calm and professional and take care of her patients.
As far back as medical school, Danni had learned not to even say Lisa’s name out loud. That was why she hadn’t told Carol the whole story just now. But then, who had she ever told? No one. She barely understood her feelings herself. That was the real problem.
No. The real problem was that Lisa had died.
And that would never change.
CHAPTER THREE
LATER, IN THE GRAY predawn hours, as she turned off Peoria Avenue onto her own street, Danni’s mood had not improved. The glamorous life of a doctor, she thought ruefully as she struggled to keep her eyes open, grateful that she lived less than a mile from the hospital.
Precisely the reason she’d chosen this upscale, historic neighborhood in Tulsa’s Woodward Park area.
She drove her BMW up the gentle incline of her driveway and wearily clicked the remote control. The garage door slid up with a flawless hum and Danni pulled into her immaculate, uncluttered garage, then punched the button again to seal out the world. Letting herself in through the utility room, she entered a completely dark, silent house.
Her silver weimaraners, Pearl and Smoky, rose like ghosts from their beds and brushed against her legs. “Well, hello,” Danni crooned as she reached down and petted them. “How are my doggies?”
She pressed the intercom button on the security panel. “Jackie?” she called, and waited for her housekeeper to awaken and answer from upstairs. “Jackie?” No answer. Was it Jackie’s night off? She reached over to punch in the security code, then realized the alarm was off.
Dadgum that harebrained girl, she thought. How many times did she have to remind Jackie to turn on the security system when she went out? Danni hit another button and soft safety lights illuminated the stairwell, bathrooms and hallways of the entire 3,700-square-foot house. Last spring, Danni had hired the top builder in Tulsa to renovate this vintage house on a split lot, with impeccable attention to details like copper awnings, custom stonework, and real plaster walls with bullnose moldings. Underneath the gracious antique facade was every amenity of modern construction imaginable, from zoned heat and air to underground sprinklers. The house with everything, Danni sometimes thought, except people to share it with.
She took a sharp right into a central hall where a narrow oak stairway wound upward and a smaller hallway veered back toward the study and master suite. Arched doorways from this central hall led to the kitchen/great room, and the formal dining living areas. The dogs padded off in the direction of the kitchen.
Danni stood in the hallway, feeling like a laboratory mouse choosing between competing drives. The bathroom? The kitchen? The bed? She needed them all at once.
She trudged as far as the small guest bathroom next to her study, then washed her hands and splashed cool water on her face.
As she blotted dry she studied her reflection in the mirror, and didn’t like what she saw: sallow complexion, bloodshot eyes, limp hair. She gave her high cheekbones a pinch. Precious little color appeared, and her skin felt oily and coarse. She looked down at her bluntly trimmed nails and bleached, cracked cuticles. Well, scrubbing for surgery wasn’t exactly a manicure. She backed away from the mirror, pulled off her wrinkled scrubs and dropped them in a heap at her feet.
Hopeless, she thought as she turned sideways and sucked in her tummy. That bulge was the result of too many fast-food meals on the run, those hips from too much horseback riding and not enough jogging, and these—she pushed her D-cup breasts up a notch in the utilitarian support bra—what could she possibly do about these?
Disheartened, she cut through the study to the master suite where she threw on her trusty old pink chenille robe, then, pushing back the guilt by telling herself she deserved some comfort food, she headed for the fridge.
The kitchen/great room, a massive area with atrium doors flanking a huge stone fireplace, would have been dark except that, predictably, Jackie had not drawn the drapes. Moonlight streamed in through a bank of Colonial windows on the south wall, casting an eerie glow over the space. By daylight this was a stunning room with its pale taupe cabinetwork, oak flooring, and muted tapestry fabrics, but tonight it seemed as cold as a cave.
She hit