Fall From Grace. Kristi Gold
I’d rather be doing in my spare time than sucking up.”
So could Anne, even if it meant curling up on the couch in her apartment and ringing in the new year alone. “I know what you mean. I’m only here because my mother asked me to come. I need to get a life.” Wonderful. She’d just admitted she didn’t have one.
He downed the wine in two gulps, then set the glass on the portable tray behind him. “This is going to sound crazy, but I really want to play miniature golf. There’s a place on the interstate a few miles away. Are you interested in a game?”
She tightened her grip on the flute as if it were a life jacket capable of saving her from sinking. “Let me get this straight. We’ve just met and you want me to play miniature golf with you in the dead of winter while I’m wearing a cocktail dress and three-inch heels.”
“It’s not that cold.”
“It’s forty degrees out.”
“If you don’t own a coat, you can borrow mine.”
Obviously he’d mistaken her for a fool. “Of course I own a coat.”
“Then what’s the problem?” When Anne didn’t immediately respond, he added, “We only have to play one round. Of course, if you have other plans for the evening, we can do it some other time.”
Faced with a situation that meant destroying her pride if she told the truth, she considered a small lie. Yet for some reason, either a lapse of sanity or unseen cosmic forces, she found herself saying, “Actually, no. I don’t have any plans. But we barely know each other.”
“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.
“Red.”
“Red’s good. Now it’s your turn.”
Anne thought a moment. “What’s your favorite sport, aside from miniature golf?”
“Baseball.”
This might go somewhere after all. “I’m a rabid baseball fan.”
“Great. Now, one more question,” he said. “Why didn’t you go to medical school?”
The question she’d been asked at least a thousand times. “You sound like my father. He’s never understood why I didn’t want to wield a scalpel and a mammoth ego. The truth is, I prefer the personal connection with patients, not to mention keeping doctors in line. You and I both know doctors are nothing without nurses.”
He held out his hands, palms forward. “I guess I’ve touched on a sorry subject.”
“You would be right.”
He tried on an apologetic look, and it worked well. “I agree—doctors can’t function without nurses. Okay?”
Suddenly she felt a little foolish over her semi-rant. “Okay.”
“Go ahead and ask me something really personal.”
Anne grabbed the opportunity to do a little fishing. “How many women have you propositioned tonight?” She watched for signs of discomfort in his demeanor, but found none. Then again, he could be very good at masking guilt.
“I’m taking the Fifth on that,” he said.
Which probably meant he’d delivered too many propositions to count. “You don’t play fair, do you? And that really makes me wonder if I should join you in that golf game.”
“Are you worried I’d beat you?”
Anne’s competitive nature planted a swift kick to her common sense. “That never entered my mind because it’s not going to happen. I’m good.”
“So am I. Better than most, in fact.”
She downed the rest of her drink, ready to meet the challenge. After all, it was only a game. Mindless recreation. She could do mindless, even if she didn’t do doctors. “Okay, you’re on. And you’re paying.”
“Believe me, Annie, you’re definitely worth the price.”
She should have been insulted that he’d called her “Annie,” a nickname she’d never cared for. She should rescind the offer and get away fast. But sometimes those “shoulds” weren’t at all appealing. “Let’s just see if you say I’m worth it when I kick your butt, Dr. Morgan.”
Anne expected a comeback, but instead Jack studied her awhile before he said, “Do you want an honest answer to your earlier question?”
“That would be nice.” She expected honesty from a man. In fact, she demanded it.
Jack surveyed the room for a moment, as if preparing to tell a secret, before he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “You’re the only one.”
CHAPTER 2
Delia Hayes Cooper hated only two things—raspberries and pompous asses.
At the moment, one sat in her untouched dessert plate and the other stood at the podium positioned in front of the banquet room. Her attention drifted away as Maxwell Crabtree, supercilious administrator of Dallas Regional, extolled the virtues of altruism to the group of volunteers as if he had personal knowledge of benevolence without the benefit of compensation.
Weary of the hypocrisy, Delia slid her chair from beneath the table and dismissed herself with a polite smile aimed at the dozen or so Pink Ladies, who regarded her with mild shock. Delia Cooper was never late to a luncheon, and she never left a meeting in the middle of a speaker’s address. Today she had done both.
Let them think what they would about her departure, be it due to incontinence or the apocalypse; Delia didn’t care. She had to get out of here fast before she gave in to the urge to grab a berry and lob it at the administrator’s forehead the next time he mentioned commitment. But she was the consummate Southern lady, or had been since she’d crossed over into the realm of acceptable society from her youthful beginnings as a free spirit. That Delia of nearly forty years ago would not have hesitated to hurl a fruity missile at the speaker. Today that Delia no longer existed, at least superficially.
She slipped soundlessly from the room until she reached the double doors that creaked open like worn-out joints in winter. The doors closed behind her, but that did little to shut out Crabtree’s booming oration. She made her way to the windows immediately across the hall and looked out over the crowded parking lot. Arms folded beneath her breasts, she shivered despite the fact that the temperature inside was comfortable enough. Outside was another story. The downpour that had begun early that morning hadn’t let up, fueling her gray mood. She felt restless, disturbed on a soul-deep level, as if something ominous was about to happen. Her mother had labeled the intuition a gift. Delia considered it a curse.
Right now she wanted to be someplace balmy, kicked back on a sun-warmed beach, with a gimlet in one hand and a cigarette in the other—something she hadn’t craved in at least three decades. No use wishing for what could never be. She was locked into a life of her own making, a comfortable life that included good friends and, most important, her only child and grandchild. A life that was safe, secure, necessary—and totally uneventful. Except for Anne’s divorce.
If only Delia had been able to prevent it. If only she could somehow have convinced her daughter that she was making a terrible mistake. From the first time she’d seen Anne and Jack interacting on a day much like today, she’d known they were destined to be together, even if she had been the only one who’d acknowledged it at the time.
“He’s good for her, Bryce.”
As always, Delia had to wait an interminable amount of time for her husband to comment. Profile to her, Bryce continued to stare out the front window, a glass of Scotch in his hand, worry etched on his still-handsome face. A face Delia had enjoyed waking up with for much of her adult life, even though the demands of his career had infringed on a good many of their mornings.
Following a long sip, he finally said,