The Good Doctor. Karen Rose Smith
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of the difference in their heights and leg length. She only came up to his shoulder but had no trouble keeping enough distance between them to make him feel like a pup on a leash.
The blast of frigid air as they stepped into the coffee house was nothing to the cool appraisal she gave him as he ordered iced cappuccino for them both. Her face could have been chiseled from Siena marble, he thought. Not a hint of emotion.
She got right to the point. “You wanted to tell me something about Joanna.”
He tipped an invisible hat to her. She was good. Making it look like the wanting and telling were both on his side when he could see, even under that neutral expression, that she wanted—no, needed—to hear whatever he had to say. He thought for a moment, knowing how important it was to choose his words carefully.
“My father and Joanna got married when I was seventeen, as I think I told you the other day. My mother had died just six months earlier.” He paused to stare down at the table for a long moment before raising his face back to her. “I was in Europe at some fancy boarding school my parents decided I needed at that point in my life.”
The waitress arrived with their cold drinks. When she moved away, he went on. “I got a telephone call about their marriage just the day before,” he explained. “They were in Las Vegas. It was all a last-minute thing. That’s what my father claimed, anyway.”
The bitterness in his voice just slipped out. He swallowed some of the frosty cappuccino, reminding himself to relax. It was a long time ago.
“To make a long story short, they got married and were on the verge of divorcing two years later when my father died of a heart attack. The last time I saw Joanna was at Dad’s funeral. I was nineteen and hardly knew her. We exchanged a few words and that was it.”
“You were going to tell me why you disliked her so much.”
Matt forced himself to keep his voice neutral. “To give Joanna her credit, she never tried to take anything out of the marriage that my father hadn’t actually given her. So after he died, she willingly handed over all my mother’s things—some jewellery and photographs—as well as most of Dad’s personal papers and such. But she certainly managed to go through most of his liquid assets in those two years, and they’d been substantial. Dad had been a highly paid executive at the bank. By the time taxes and lawyers were paid, there wasn’t much left, anyway.”
“And?”
He flushed with annoyance. She was cool, all right. Not a murmur or flicker of sympathy during his whole speech. Suddenly he wanted to blurt out the whole of it. See if that finely sculpted marble would crack under the heat of what he’d say.
“A while ago I learned that she hadn’t returned everything of Dad’s. I’ve been trying for several months now to get hold of some papers of his. They weren’t important to her, but they are to me. That’s why I was at Marchant’s office this morning. To ask about them.”
“What did he say?”
He wasn’t expecting the question. She was obviously more interested in Marchant’s response than in his story, and he felt a surge of irritation. Then she sat forward in her chair, folding her elbows on the tabletop. Her iced cappuccino, still untouched, was sitting in a widening puddle of condensation. Merely keeping eye contact with her blue-green and very direct gaze obliterated his rehearsed reply. Matt wet his lips and glanced down at his own empty glass.
“Mind?” he asked, indicating hers.
“Go ahead,” she mumbled.
Matt took a long swallow. “Lance told me he hadn’t found any of my father’s papers among Joanna’s things.”
Kate shrugged as if to say, what did you expect?
“But after I left his office, I thought the papers might have been stored at that camp of her parents. Can’t recall the name.”
“Limberlost,” she said. She was sitting straight as a poker now, all ears.
“Right. I wondered if you could look for them for me.”
Kate tilted her head questioningly. “Say again?”
He cursed under his breath. Well, he thought, there was no going back now. The proverbial cat was definitely not only out of the bag, but scampering across the table.
“Perhaps I’m speaking out of turn, but I heard that you’d inherited the camp from Joanna and, uh, I was wondering if you’d look for the papers for me. At the camp.”
“Where did you hear that?” she demanded. “Who told you I inherited the camp?”
She leaned across the table, the end of her nose almost touching the iced cappuccino sitting in front of him.
He made an effort not to pull his head back. In spite of the dizzying warmth of her breath enveloping his face, he managed a casual shrug. “I don’t know. I…I guess Marchant. When I saw him this morning.”
She eased back into her chair, a faint smirk on her face. “I don’t believe you. Your meeting with him was before the will had been read.”
Matt knew he’d never come up with anything convincing enough to sway that haughty, self-assured expression in her eyes, but he made a stab at it. “I’m sure he mentioned it. How else would I know?”
The rhetorical question hung over the table. After a long moment, Kate pushed her chair back and stood up. “I don’t know who you are—oh yes,” she said, holding up a palm, “you say you’re Matt Sinclair and your father was married to Joanna and so on, but we haven’t really been introduced at all, have we? I mean, you could be just anyone telling me whatever you want, and you still haven’t explained why Joanna was a target of your hate. I’ve no idea how you learned about my inheritance, but seeing as it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with you, I’m leaving.”
Color bloomed in her face again, and in spite of the frizzy hair and a bra strap drooping off her shoulder, Matt knew that she was mustering all her reserves to make a dignified exit. He remained in his seat as she marched to the door and left without a backward glance.
Strike three. So now you’ve blown all three encounters with Kate Reilly. Way to go, champ.
KATE KEYED IN HER password so hard she chipped the end of her index fingernail. With the telephone receiver clamped in one hand, she patted down her hair with the other. Then she noticed her bra strap hanging limply from under the shoulder of her sleeveless dress and swore. The safety pin must have unfastened. She should’ve taken a few extra minutes that morning to sew the damn thing. Knowing that she’d left the café disheveled as well as angry added to her conflicting emotions about Matt.
Her voice mail clicked on, repeating Carla’s message.
“Hi, Kate, it’s me, Carla. It’s already two and you haven’t called yet. Are we still on for shopping tomorrow? Can you call and let me know later, ’cause I’m going out right now. Bye.”
Kate hung up and swore again. In spite of the casual tone of Carla’s voice, she knew from experience what a broken promise meant to a troubled teen. She replayed Carla’s message. Hadn’t she been grounded? If so, why was she going out? Kate rapidly punched in Carla’s number, but the line was busy. Reluctant to play telephone tag, she hung up and headed into her bedroom.
She’d forgotten to close the blinds before leaving that morning, and the room, filled with sunlight for hours, was like a Swedish sauna in spite of the air conditioner pumping away in the kitchen. Kate rushed to the window and reached for the rod. Glancing downward, she noticed a man standing on the pavement a few feet away from the entrance to her row house. Matt Sinclair.
Kate frowned. She’d managed to put the coffee-shop scene out of her mind for five minutes and now the whole humiliating event surged back. She leaned closer to the window. He had his back to her and seemed to be swaying from side to side, his right arm raised. Kate pressed her nose against the glass to get a better look. Then she realized what he was doing. Talking