Radclyffe - Turn Back Time

"I'm not looking for a bedmate."

"All right," Mina acquiesced cheerfully, "then what do you think it is that's gotten you out of sorts?"

"I'm not out of sorts. I'm just...restless."

"Restless. Restless like you want to take a trip?"

"No."

"Restless like...you hate your job and want to do something else with your life?"

"No."

"Restless like you need an emergency vacation from the kids?"

"No. Mina--"

"Restless like--"

"Stop!" Wynter pleaded. "Just forget I said anything."

"You know I can't. It's gonna bother me so much that I won't be able to sleep."

"Liar."

"Are you going to eat that popcorn?"

"No, go ahead."

"So," Mina observed, tearing into the second bag, "maybe it's got something to do with Pearce."

A rush of heat started at Wynter's toes and climbed to the top of her head. "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe she's making you uneasy."

Wynter's throat was so dry she could barely speak. "What...why do you say that?"

"Because she's got the hots for you."

Wynter shivered as if the wind had suddenly blown through the room, carrying slivers of ice that pricked at her skin. "That's ridiculous."

Mina laughed. "Oh, honey. You do need a vacation if you can't recognize when someone is looking at you like they want to lick every little drop of sweat from your--"

"Pearce is a lesbian. She's not going to be looking at me that way."

"Last time I looked, you were female."

"That's different. I'm not even her type."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've seen the kind of women she goes for, and believe me...This is ridiculous. What difference does it make what kind of woman Pearce Rifkin is attracted to? It wouldn't be me."

"You sound like that might bother you," Mina said with a gentle question in her voice.

"That's not what I meant. I just meant..." Wynter had no idea what she meant. She emptied her wineglass in a long swallow and gathered the remnants of their late-night snack. "I promised Ronnie she could help me make pancakes tomorrow morning. Which means she's going to be up at five a.m. We'd better get some sleep."

"You can snuggle up right here," Mina said. "You know I don't snore."

"Thanks," Wynter said, leaning over to give Mina a quick hug.

"I'd better bunk in next to her so that I can divert her if she decides to go exploring when she wakes up."

"Well, if you want company, I'm here."

"I appreciate it. Night." Wynter made her way through the silent house to the kitchen. As she methodically rinsed the wineglass, put the bottle in the recycler, and tied up a bag of trash, she kept thinking about what Mina had said. That Pearce had looked at her with desire.

It shouldn't have meant anything to her, no more than if a man she was not attracted to had made an overture. But Pearce wasn't a man, and the only thing she knew for certain was that she liked the way Pearce looked at her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Pearce watched the fire die. The room grew steadily darker and a numbing chill settled upon her. Finally, she roused herself enough to stand up and squint at the Seth Thomas clock on the mantel, one of the few keepsakes she had wanted from her grandmother's home after her death. She could have had anything she wanted from the Main Line estate, but the only other things she'd taken were the photograph albums. When she was young, she and her grandmother had spent hours poring through the albums that had seemed enormous to her then. They had been filled with treasures--photographs of her grandmother when she was a child Pearce's age, images of old-fashioned cars and young men and women dressed in 1920s clothes, mementos of her grandmother and grandfather's courtship, and faded pictures of her grandfather in uniform from World War II. She loved to look at the hospital tents and jeeps with white crosses painted on the side, imagining herself in one of those field hospitals under a sweltering sun with the backdrop of aircraft and mortars for company while she performed life-saving surgery. Each photograph had been a story, and she had always loved her grandmother's stories, no matter how many times she heard them.

Now she kept the albums in a sealed plastic container on the top shelf of her closet, where they would be safe.

The clock chimed once, twelve thirty. She slid the key beside it off the mantel, carefully opened the hinged faceplate, and wound the springs for the hands and the gong. It was a seven-day clock, and every Saturday night she wound it, just as she had seen her grandmother do throughout the years of her youth. It was a ritual that reminded her of the best years of her life. She closed the clock and repositioned it in its place in the center of the mantel. Then she flicked on a wall switch that lit the chandelier in the center of the room and crossed to the bathroom, where she turned on the shower and efficiently stripped off her clothes while waiting for the water to heat. She let the warm water sluice over her injured hand while lathering her hair with the other. She didn't linger in the soothing spray. She had places to go.

"Hey, Rifkin," Mark Perlman called to her. "How about a game of pool?"

Perlman was a second-year surgery resident, and his first rotation upon arriving at Penn had been on service with Pearce. He'd been green and arrogant, a rich boy from Brown who still wore Ralph Lauren polo shirts and fabric belts with ducks on them. Six weeks into his residency he had called her in the middle of the night on the verge of a nervous breakdown, literally weeping because he never got home before ten at night and didn't have time to work out and how was he supposed to study when he didn't have time to sleep? He had said he was going to walk out of the hospital and never come back.

She'd debated telling him to switch to anesthesia or, better yet, internal medicine, but she considered maybe it wasn't his fault that no one had prepared him for what a surgical residency was really going to be like. She'd gone to the hospital, helped him finish his night work, and pretty much held his hand for the next six weeks. He'd adjusted, like most did, and now his arrogance was tempered with a little humility.

And Pearce had earned his undying gratitude.

"Maybe later," Pearce replied, lifting her glass and indicating her beer. She didn't want to call attention to her hand by trying to play pool, and she doubted that she would be able to shoot with her usual proficiency. It was a rare night that she didn't win twenty bucks if she was playing seriously. "I just got here."

Here was O'Malley's, the neighborhood bar two blocks from the hospital and across from the high-rise dorms. Students, residents, and nurses congregated there after work during the week and most weekend nights. She usually made it by a couple of times a week, especially when, like tonight, she wanted casual company and a diversion from the relentless pace of her life. And, she admitted, she'd been too content just relaxing with Wynter to face her empty apartment quite so soon.

"If you change your mind, look me up," Mark said exuberantly. "I feel like winning a few rounds tonight."

Pearce laughed and leaned back against the bar. "Still dreaming, I see."

"Maybe. And maybe not." The thin, sandy-haired man, whom most women considered very handsome with his sharply carved features and brilliant blue eyes, sidled closer to Pearce. "So what's the inside story on the new resident on your service?"

"Story?" Pearce sipped her beer, her fingers tightening around the handle of the glass mug.

"You know--with Thompson. First I heard she's married, but then one of the nurses told me she's divorced."

"Do I look like I'm the newsroom?"

"I just figured you'd know. A couple guys already tried to feel her out, but she kind of blew them off. So I thought I'd give her a--"