Free The Saint Louisans by Steven Clark Page B

making me scoop him up and shut the door behind me. Checking my email, I was pleased at Pierce’s latestmessage; a video of him and Antje, my daughter-in-law, happily showing her watermelon belly wherein lies my future grandchild. Life is good.
    Then, defrosting a multicultural dinner from Straub’s with all the fixings from Mexico to India, I considered Margot’s first child. Margot might be projecting her sadness from that experience, of the opportunities missed for a good child; the unknown kid that must be far better than her two surviving offspring, and of course the tragedy of losing her eldest son to a drug OD/ suicide. I sensed she would talk about it, eventually. Cancer makes one open up, to clean up unfinished business.
    Later, as I finished my email, I thought about Saul. I had been stalling, and was reluctant to marry again. First Len, then Sky, and now. I liked being independent. After telling myself that several times, I pulled one of my photo albums off the bookshelf, and opened it to Doc. Richard Pickwick, MD. Doc was South African, and his lilting voice, light chocolate eyes and firm jaw reminded me of Richard Burton without the baleful effects of Liz or booze. His voice was mocha latte to my ears, and we met when I was head nurse and still sexy in jeans. I’d introduced him to Tower Grove on a beautiful day when the shade under the trees was like a dark carpet, and the July sun was white and relentless. Doc had forgotten his sunglasses and had to squint to watch as the wedding party at the grotto lined up for photos, the third one that day. He wore a rumpled khaki shirt like an explorer, which he was in a sense, making his way through the wilds of South St. Louis.
    â€œThey seem a happy lot,” Doc volunteered.
    I smirked as only a divorcée can. “Little do they know.
Bwah-ha-ha
.”
    â€œSo, you took a turn over there, did you?”
    I sat next to him in the grass, taking a semi-lotus position, my hair a tangled pony straying into Medusa. “Sky and I had to. Ye olde mother-in-law insisted.”
    Doc’s grin made his wrinkles benevolent. “I got married by the sea. Myrtle and I. Boulder Beach. Near Cape Town. Great for swimming, and the boulders make for natural coves. We posed against the sea in our wedding togs, barefoot. Penguins scuttled by, rather like third cousins. They flanked us in the snaps.”
    â€œDid they get cake?”
    â€œThey did not. But we cracked open tins of sardines. They were grateful. More so than the third cousins.” He fished for conversation. “I sailed, you know. Especially Table Bay.”
    â€œAh,” I smiled, “a trait of surgeons.”
    The party took different poses. Doc nodded.
    â€œThere we go. Happy snaps.” He frowned. “Surgeons?”
    â€œSurgeons are establishment. They even rebel in socially acceptable ways.”
    â€œWe do?”
    â€œBarefoot on the beach in wedding togs.” I leaned back. “They reek of power. Irritating beyond belief.”
    Doc raised his eyes. “Dear me. As bad as that, are we?”
    â€œI’m merely telling it like it is.”
    â€œIt has a real
J’accuse
sound to it. But I am divorced. That has to be a tad rebellious.”
    So he was single. I filed that away. “I’ve been married twice.”
    Doc digested that. “I’ve heard stories about ‘Nurse Lee’.”
    â€œFrom surgeons?”
    â€œActually, from Anesthesiology. Where no secrets are kept. Rumor has it you’re a bit randy.”
    I laughed and undid my pony tail. Hunched my shoulders. “I’ll put it to you this way. I’m not an insatiable nymphomaniac, but I do have a hair trigger.”
    Doc’s head went back as he laughed. Less conservatively. I joined him, and we connected. When you laugh with a man, it starts. He patted my leg. “Let’s get some dinner. Somewhere
al fresco
. I’m fond of sunsets and dining.