The Globalist. John Walsh
“This violent, passionate bolt of desire, which struck like lightning.”
“Oh, that spontaneous combustion.” Trish waved her hand dismissively and replaced her sunglasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. That kind of thing never happens. I’m surprised that a cynic like you, Claire, would even mention something as silly as that. People just don’t suddenly get all weak in the knees by some sudden onslaught of passion.”
Claire stared at Jason. She saw him work his jaw. She immediately thought of their fleeting kiss. Her stomach contracted violently. “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly, still looking at his lips.
“Still, people will believe anything, won’t they?” Trish sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “And seeing as we could say it was this sudden thing, we could also say afterward that it broke up just as quickly—one of those sputtering flame things. So, will you do it?” She turned and rested a hand on Jason’s sleeve.
Jason looked at Claire’s lips.
“Jason?” Trish asked.
“Hmm?”
“Will you do it? Will you be my fiancé?”
He stared at Claire’s mouth as he spoke. “There’s still six weeks to the start of the season. And when you put it that way, how can I refuse.”
THREE HOURS LATER, ensconced in the children’s ward of an Upper East Side hospital and research institute, Claire had just about run out of film.
That wasn’t the only thing to run out of steam. After going through several tapes and lobbing out questions that seemed to touch on everything from his first-grade teacher—Mrs. Greenberg, she wore a hairnet and orthopedic shoes—to the latest rumors about his hot-and-heavy affair with a Swedish cover girl—“We’re just good friends,” Claire heard him say over the whir of her camera—Trish packed up her recorder, her cell phone and her handheld organizer, and had Elaine arrange for a car to take her back to the office.
Someone else had yet to wilt, though. Jason was enthusiastically chatting away and signing autographs in the children’s clinic. Despite the ever-present barrage of tubes and drips, the mood was pure upbeat, with Jason trading high-fives with most of the kids.
Claire circled a hospital bed as Jason joked with one boy about the cap he was wearing. “Hey,” he called over to Claire, “don’t take his picture unless he promises to get rid of that Rangers cap. It’s Blades or nothing around here.” Jason dug into a bag and pulled out a cap. “Now that’s more like it.”
The smiling boy, his head billiard-ball smooth, laughed as he doffed the Blades souvenir. “Hey, Jason, you fall for my trick every time. I must have four Blades caps from you already.” The youngster adjusted the bill just right.
Jason held up a warning finger. “And that’s going to be the last. At least for today.” He pulled down the bill as Claire snapped another picture. “I’m all out of caps. Did everybody get one, Larry?” He looked to the doctor who was accompanying them.
“I think you’ve hit everyone, at least once, Jason.” As the rest of the medical team, Larry—Dr. Lawrence Shepherd, head of pediatric oncology—wore bright colors instead of the usual white uniform. He had a silly-looking frog hanging off his stethoscope. It seemed to suit the middle-aged physician with the gimlet smile. “We’ll see you back here in two weeks anyway, right?”
Jason nodded. “Got enough for the scrapbook, Claire?” He got up off the bed, looking bone-weary but deep-down satisfied.
“You’re a fraud, Jason Doyle,” Claire said as she packed up. “Vernon churns out the usual publicity drivel about the swinging star-athlete making the requisite charity appearances, and here it actually looks like you enjoy it. Next you’ll tell me you’ve been coming here off-the-record for five years.”
“I’d say it’s more like fifteen,” Larry said as he walked them to the elevators. He pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses and looked at Jason.
“It’s the food. I just can’t get enough of it.”
“Just bring the Stanley Cup to New York this coming season,” Larry said. “I’ve got a twenty-dollar bet riding on it with the president of the hospital board.”
“And here I thought I was appreciated for just being me.” They walked companionably to the elevators, with Jason inquiring about how Larry’s children had liked sleep-away camp. Without too much prompting, Larry opened his wallet.
“That’s some catch.” Claire leaned over to take a look at the snapshot. A boy of around ten with board shorts and a baseball cap turned backward was proudly holding a fish. A fishing pole stood at attention in the other hand.
“Largemouth bass. Must have been two pounds.” Larry grinned before carefully packing up his wallet.
“Paging Dr. Shepherd. Dr. Lawrence Shepherd.”
Larry looked up. “Never a dull moment.” He held open the elevator, letting Claire and Jason enter without him. “Remember what I said.” He looked at Jason.
“I know, the twenty dollars.”
“That, and my usual invitation. It’s always good any time you want.”
The doors closed. Jason leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. She let the day’s first moment of silence embrace them before finally asking, “How come you know Larry? You’re not from the city, right?”
“Nope, I’m one of St. Johnsbury, Vermont’s finest. Larry was my college roommate’s doctor. I never forgot what he did for Danny. Larry has a gift.”
“I wouldn’t say you’re completely untalented. How many people can play hockey the way you do?”
Jason opened his eyes. “Did a goal ever save anyone’s life?” He paused. “But enough humility on my part. Instead, let’s turn to a far more intriguing subject—Claire Marsden.” Whatever weariness or bitterness he may have felt was quickly masked.
“Trust me, it’s just your run-of-the-mill, globe-trotting photojournalist stuff. Not a very interesting topic.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start with this.” Jason playfully tugged Claire’s streak of gray hair. “I’ve been dying to know. It’s real, yeah?”
“It’s real, yeah. Do you know many thirty-year-old women who purposely put gray in their hair?”
Jason toyed with the dramatic lock. “I like it. It’s different. It’s you.”
“Actually, it’s more my father. He had the same streak. Turned gray around seventeen, eighteen, just like me. And that’s what I inherited—besides seven hundred and forty-five dollars, a Leica in impeccable working order, and a good set of camera lenses.”
“I’d say from your talent, you inherited a whole lot more.” He toyed with her hair a bit longer. “And what did you inherit from your mother?”
Claire rescued her hair from his fingering and tucked it behind her ear. “If you met my mother, you wouldn’t even bother to ask the question. Let’s just say we’re the yin and yang of mother-daughter relationships.” The elevator doors opened at the hospital lobby. “Our eighteen months of living together were as baffling to her as they were to me. To her great consternation, I just never learned essential life lessons, like how to coordinate my handbag with my shoes.”
Jason studied her work boots and canvas camera bag that doubled as a catch-all purse. “I noticed. It’s one of your more charming qualities. I hadn’t thought of it before, but I may add that to my requirements for a future wife. Let’s see, where does that put you? Four in total?”
Claire swung open the wide glass door and walked outside. She waited under the canopy on the sidewalk. She looked around as he joined her. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with all this future