The Truth About Elyssa. Lorna Michaels
suit flushed with desire. He was surprised at himself. He was a man grounded in reality, not given to flights of fancy. Not accustomed to mooning over a face on the TV screen.
Yet he’d watched her often after that and indulged in a few more private fantasies. He remembered he’d been especially partial to the one that took place on his examining table.
Then she disappeared, and eventually he’d all but forgotten her. Now their paths had crossed, and the fantasies had emerged again, in full bloom. Now he wanted to find out if the emotions she stirred were real.
And if they were, what difference would it make?
A serious relationship was out of the question for him. He’d had that once with Denise—begun a love affair, then a marriage, with his heart full of hopes and dreams. How quickly they’d vanished.
Oh, he’d been warned. An older colleague had told him, “Marriage and medicine don’t mix. Being a doctor is like joining a monastic order. You don’t have to be celibate, but you sure as hell don’t have time to make a relationship work.” At the time, with a diamond sparkling on Denise’s finger and a wedding soon to follow, Brett had laughed off the bitter words, attributing them to his friend’s two divorces. Later he’d learned how prophetic that statement was.
The marriage was rocky from the start. They’d been too young, and Denise, he guessed, had been too needy. But when their life together had ended in tragedy, he’d blamed only himself. Would always blame himself. He and his commitment to medicine were solely responsible. He’d never risk a serious relationship again.
Instead, he poured his heart and soul into his work. And in place of intimacy, he opted for superficial affairs—a few laughs, a lot of sex, no commitment.
So why was he sitting here, filled with anticipation, waiting for Elyssa Jarmon? He didn’t have time now to get involved with her, even on a casual basis. When the receptionist called to announce her, he opened the door, fully intending to heed his own advice.
But there she stood in her costume—blue checked dress with a white pinafore, yellow pigtails tied with bright blue bows, a turned-up smile, and freckles painted across her nose. She looked like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Adorable. And no, he hadn’t imagined a thing. The attraction was still there. Stronger, in fact.
“Hello,” he said, ushering her in. “How was the afternoon?”
“Great. I have a lot to tell you.”
“Why don’t we talk over dinner at The Orchard?” he suggested, forgetting what he’d told himself only minutes earlier. “I’ll wait while you get out of your costume.”
She stiffened. “No!” Then as if realizing how rude she’d sounded, she added, “I don’t have my street clothes with me.”
“Bring them next week. For now, how about the cafeteria here? In costume.”
“All right,” she said, but she seemed none too thrilled. In fact, she appeared downright uncomfortable.
Her reaction puzzled him. Even if she was involved with someone, dinner in the cafeteria to discuss working with his patients shouldn’t make her uneasy. And if she wasn’t involved…
Last week he thought he’d sensed attraction on her part, too, but maybe he’d been wrong. He would work on changing her mind. He always enjoyed a challenge.
She shoved her cart into a corner, and he followed her out the door. She might look as if she belonged on the Yellow Brick Road, but she smelled like… Oh, God, he thought as his blood heated, she smelled like sex. Slow, sweet sex on a star-laced summer night. Her scent teased him all the way downstairs.
This early, the cafeteria was nearly empty. A couple of interns who looked as if they were about to fall out of their chairs from exhaustion were guzzling coffee. A dazed-looking man, probably the father of a newborn, sat nibbling a sandwich and grinning at no one in particular. A trio of nurses rested their feet and snacked on doughnuts.
Brett and Elyssa moved through the cafeteria line, chose a table and unloaded their trays. Brett took a bite of spaghetti sauce that tasted as if it had come straight out of a can. “Could be better,” he remarked. “But then, hospital food is—”
“Lousy,” Elyssa finished, the corners of her painted mouth turning up. “I know.”
Of course, everyone knew that hospitals served inedible food, but the way she spoke made Brett wonder if someone in her family had recently been ill. Instead of asking a too-personal question, he said, “Tell me about your session with the kids.”
Her eyes—he’d thought they were blue, but they were violet—lit up. “I painted their faces, and they loved it. I gave them each a Polaroid snapshot. You’ll have to look when you visit their rooms. But the pictures don’t begin to show the kids’ enthusiasm. Even Trace participated. He started talking about a circus book he’d read, then about rodeo clowns. I could hardly get him to stop.”
“With his face painted, he could be someone else. Someone other than a sick little boy.”
Elyssa stared at him, then dropped her gaze. “A little greasepaint makes a big difference.” She toyed with a teaspoon for a moment, then began discussing the other children.
When she finished, Brett got them fresh cups of coffee. As they drank, he asked. “What made you give up broadcasting and become a clown?”
“My cousin and I worked several summers for a woman who did birthday parties. We were clowns—Lulu and Coco. It was fun, and last year I decided to start my own business.”
He studied her thoughtfully. She’d only answered the second half of his question.
“Did you go in with your cousin?” he asked.
“No, but she helps me out sometimes.”
Something didn’t fit. Elyssa was beautiful, brainy, articulate and in his nonprofessional opinion, a woman who’d been headed straight for the top, reporting from the White House or the international scene. Why had she changed careers? And why especially had she chosen to play a clown?
Clearly, she got along well with kids. Why hadn’t she gone into, say, child psychology? He’d watched her long enough last week to notice her self-assured manner with the staff, and he sure hadn’t missed the confident way she walked. Yes, she belonged on some professional fast track. “Where did you go to college?” he asked.
“Northwestern.”
“That’s a tough school.” You didn’t get into Northwestern with mediocre grades or stay without high ambitions. “Then why a birthday party business?” he asked.
“Why not?” she said coolly.
“I picture you making your mark in network TV.”
The long fake lashes she wore veiled her eyes, but he heard the edge in her voice when she answered. “I tried that route.”
No trespassing, he thought but plunged on anyway. “And?”
“And I decided I needed a change.” She raised her eyes, and now he saw the harsh glint of anger. “What are you,” she asked, “a cop? I feel like I’m being interrogated.”
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.” Though in truth, he had. He was silent. Then with a grin he suggested, “Let’s talk about me.”
She stared at him with a startled expression for a minute, then laughed. “This time I get to be the cop.”
“Shoot.”
“Ohh, bad pun,” she chided. “Where did you go to school?”
“University of Pennsylvania for undergrad, and Harvard Medical School.”
“Ivy League,” she said, tapping a finger on the table. “Why’d you choose medicine?”
“It’s a challenge. And