Arlene James - The Doctor's Perfect Match

Morgan’s thirteen-month-old daughter Brigitte, named for Brooks’s late wife, had a cast-iron stomach, a hearty constitution and a wonderfully cheerful disposition. Brooks adored her, and would have even if Morgan and Lyla hadn’t named her after his Brigitte. He sipped the cranberry punch and found it palatable.

Bri came into the wood-paneled room perched on her mother’s slim hip. After her cancer, Lyla Simone had barely had enough hair to cover her head, but now her light reddish brown hair had grown to chin length, sleekly framing her oval face with its big, gray eyes. Nearly two decades his wife’s senior, Morgan’s nut-brown hair showed specks of silver, and he had the distinctive cinnamon brown Chatam eyes, as well as the Chatam cleft chin. Bri’s thin, pale blond hair and bright blue eyes contrasted with the coloring of both of her parents, but then Bri was adopted, the biological child of a teenager whom Lyla had rescued from an abusive relationship.

The thought struck Brooks that Bri looked more like Eva Belle Russell than Morgan and Lyla. Just the thought of his difficult patient irritated him.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” he told Lyla, pushing away thoughts of Eva.

Chuckling, Lyla bent and placed a plate on the coffee table between the comfy leather sofa where he sat and the overstuffed armchair where her husband lounged. “No worries. Bri and I went ahead and ate. Now you and Morgan can enjoy yourselves.” She handed Bri to her father, and left the library.

“God bless that woman,” Brooks said with heartfelt gratitude, helping himself to a thick ham and cheese sandwich.

“Your mommy is a wonder,” Morgan told his daughter in a silly voice. “Uncle Brooks is a jealous man.”

“Green with envy,” Brooks admitted, biting into the sandwich. The time had been when it was the other way around, but Brooks was happy to see his friend happy now, and he loved Lyla and Bri for being the agents of that happiness. He prayed that Morgan’s happiness would last many, many years longer than his own had.

Lyla returned to take up her daughter again and cart her off to bed. Bri roused but didn’t protest, a child so well loved that she felt no reason to fear. This, too, made Brooks smile. As soon as mother and daughter left the room, however, he frowned, knowing that he had to speak of a subject he’d rather not broach.

“I have imposed upon your aunts again.”

Morgan sat up straight in his chair and leaned forward. “Oh? How so? Another celebrity patient?”

The last “celebrity patient” had been the goalie for a professional Fort Worth hockey team injured in an accident and needing to recuperate away from the limelight. He was now Morgan’s brother-in-law.

“Just the opposite, I’m afraid,” Brooks admitted. “This one is something of an itinerant, too broke to eat, let alone provide shelter for herself until she’s healed, so...”

“So it’s the aunties to the rescue once again.”

“What would we do without them?” Brooks asked.

“I shudder to think.”

“Just thought I should let you know,” Brooks said, realizing the time had come to go. Lyla would be waiting for her husband to join her.

He got up from the sofa and reached for his overcoat. Morgan didn’t try to stop him. He rose, too, and walked around the coffee table, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“What’s her name?” he asked. “This itinerant patient of yours.”

“Eva Belle Russell.”

They walked together out of the library and across the terra cotta tile floor of the expansive living room of Morgan’s graceful 1928 house.

“Older lady?” he mused. “Eva Belle.”

“Not particularly,” Brooks hedged.

“No? How old is she then?” Morgan wanted to know.

Brooks shrugged into his coat. “Oh, mid-thirties.”

“Really?” Morgan tilted his head. “What does she look like?”

Brooks fiddled with his collar. “Tall, thin.”

They reached the small foyer and went down the two steps to the arched front door.

“Blonde, brunette, redhead?” Morgan ventured dryly.

Brooks sighed. “She has blond hair.”

“Long? Short?”

“Long.”

“Blue eyes?”

He considered pretending that he hadn’t noticed, but a doctor would have looked into his patient’s eyes. Instead, he chose a nonchalant tone. “Green hazelish.”

“Pretty, is she?” Morgan pressed, rocking back on his heels.

Brooks tamped down his irritation. Any attempt at prevarication would catch up with Brooks in short order. Might as well face the facts head on. “Stunning, if you must know.”

Morgan grinned. It was funny how a little domestic bliss made matchmakers of even the most stalwart former bachelors. Brooks shook his head grimly.

“Don’t get any ideas. She’s the very last woman on the face of the earth I’d get involved with.”

“And why is that?”

Brooks looked his friend in the eye and tossed aside his medical ethics. “She has a brain tumor.”

The nascent spark of hope there swiftly died. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry.”

“She’s not Brigitte,” Brooks said softly. “It’s not like that. Well, Eva is refusing treatment for some reason, but it’s not my problem, and it’s not going to be.”

“No, of course, it isn’t,” Morgan rushed to say. “No one would expect—”

“She’s just passing through,” Brooks broke in. “She’s not my problem.”

“That’s right,” Morgan agreed, frowning uncertainly.

Brooks nodded. “Well, I have a busy day tomorrow. Give Lyla my thanks, and kiss Bri good-night for me.”

“Sure,” Morgan said, opening the door, “but, Brooks...”

“Yeah?”

“You could kiss Bri good-night yourself.”

He could, but he wouldn’t. That was a dad’s job. Brooks clapped his friend on the upper arm as he slid through the door. “Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

Brooks flashed Morgan a wave as he hurried to his waiting car. He thought of the cold, dark house waiting for him, and as he drove away from Morgan’s warm, comfortable home, he tried not to feel sorry for himself. He’d had his time in the sun. He’d won the girl and made the most of what they’d been given. He had no regrets on that score. But now, sixteen years later, he could be forgiven for a touch of melancholy, couldn’t he?

It would pass. Somehow, he couldn’t help thinking that it would pass just as soon as Eva Russell left town. Somehow he knew he’d feel better again once she had gone on her way. Then things could get back to normal.

Why normal had recently begun to feel less than satisfactory, he did not know or want to.

* * *

The room, if it could be called that, was downright luxurious, from the thick, cream-colored carpet underfoot to the royal blue velvet sofa and chairs in the sitting area and the cream-painted wood paneling. The bed furniture looked to be Empire-style, unless Eva missed her guess. Whatever the period, it was the real deal—no reproductions here. Sky-blue velvet curtains trimmed in heavy gold cording and fringe adorned the windows, with white on cream in the bathroom, gold fittings and sea-green towels. Vases of vibrant coral roses shocked the senses and perfumed the air, their color picked up in the subtle paintings on the walls. Over the stately fireplace hung a thoroughly modern flat-screen television.

Magnolia Chatam invited Eva to run a hot bath in the jetted tub and went out to find an extra nightgown for her. Deciding to take her up on the offer, Eva gingerly pulled up her hair and piled it atop her head. The blood had been rinsed out of it when the wound had been cleansed, but it could use a good scrubbing. That, however, would have to wait until her stitches came out. She began to disrobe, removing her scarves one by one and folding them carefully. Who knew how long she would have to wear the things?