making me scoop him up and shut the door behind me. Checking my email, I was pleased at Pierceâs 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 Straubâs with all the fixings from Mexico to India, I considered Margotâs 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. Iâd 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.
âThey seem a happy lot,â Doc volunteered.
I smirked as only a divorcée can. âLittle do they know.
Bwah-ha-ha
.â
âSo, you took a turn over there, did you?â
I sat next to him in the grass, taking a semi-lotus position, my hair a tangled pony straying into Medusa. âSky and I had to. Ye olde mother-in-law insisted.â
Docâs grin made his wrinkles benevolent. âI 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
âDid they get cake?â
âThey did not. But we cracked open tins of sardines. They were grateful. More so than the third cousins.â He fished for conversation. âI sailed, you know. Especially Table Bay.â
âAh,â I smiled, âa trait of surgeons.â
The party took different poses. Doc nodded.
âThere we go. Happy snaps.â He frowned. âSurgeons?â
âSurgeons are establishment. They even rebel in socially acceptable ways.â
âWe do?â
âBarefoot on the beach in wedding togs.â I leaned back. âThey reek of power. Irritating beyond belief.â
Doc raised his eyes. âDear me. As bad as that, are we?â
âIâm merely telling it like it is.â
âIt has a real
Jâaccuse
sound to it. But I am divorced. That has to be a tad rebellious.â
So he was single. I filed that away. âIâve been married twice.â
Doc digested that. âIâve heard stories about âNurse Leeâ.â
âFrom surgeons?â
âActually, from Anesthesiology. Where no secrets are kept. Rumor has it youâre a bit randy.â
I laughed and undid my pony tail. Hunched my shoulders. âIâll put it to you this way. Iâm not an insatiable nymphomaniac, but I do have a hair trigger.â
Docâs 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. âLetâs get some dinner. Somewhere
al fresco
. Iâm fond of sunsets and dining.