Tracy Kelleher – Everybody's Hero (страница 7)

“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 wife rigmarole, but it’s starting to get a little stale.”

Jason zipped up his jacket. “Rigmarole. I like that. Whoever said words weren’t your strength?”

Claire spun around. The man could try the patience of Mother Teresa. “All right, I’m just going to ignore whatever’s going on.”

“But why?”

“Well, for one thing, do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to have fallen madly in love with Trish and are engaged to her?”

“That’s pretend.”

“Nevertheless.” Claire pulled out the schedule from her back pocket and unfolded it. “Let’s see. Tomorrow appears to be a full day. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning we hit your gym.” She folded the paper back up. “A little workout’s in store.”

Jason wetted his lips, letting the tip of his tongue rest in the corner of his mouth. Never had a gesture of thoughtfulness been so X-rated.

“Hey, Jason, I don’t know which gets more stares—you, or that damn bike of yours.” The hospital doorman tossed him the keys. Jason’s motorcycle had mysteriously rematerialized in front of the hospital.

“Thanks, Nick,” he replied, then turned to Claire. “Can I give you a lift? I need both hands to steer, you know.”

“Even without your hands, you’re not to be trusted. I think I’ll take my chances on the street.” She took a few backward steps.

“Tomorrow.” Jason nodded. “I’ll be ready, Claire Marsden. Oh, which reminds me. Before, when you were explaining why you were going to ignore me, you said ‘for one thing.’ What I want to know is, what’s the other reason?”

4

CLAIRE WAS READY.

But Trish wasn’t. Neither was Elaine. Maybe they couldn’t deal with putting on eyeliner and lipstick before sunrise two days in a row.

A certain member of the male population didn’t seem to have those worries. Jason was there waiting, tapping his foot as he leaned against the check-in area in the Plaza’s lobby. A giant arrangement of Asiatic lilies and birds-of-paradise, which was perched on the marble counter, quivered in time to his strict tattoo.

And talk about the opposite of all dressed up with nowhere to go. Under his leather bomber jacket, he wore a ratty sweatshirt and sweatpants. On his feet, an old pair of sneakers held together with duct tape. There wasn’t a logo in sight.

It was a sponsor’s nightmare. And from the looks of the female clerks on duty, every woman’s fantasy.

How could a man who’d just rolled out of bed and into yesterday’s laundry possibly generate that much raw sex appeal? Claire wondered. Thoughts of his just rolling out of bed lingered in her imagination. She set her jaw and marched forward. Simply do your job, she told herself. No weak knees today.

Jason spotted her instantly and pushed himself away from the desk with his elbows. Claire stopped two feet in front of him and performed an obvious once-over. “Don’t overdress on my account,” she said in greeting him.

Jason leaned over and picked up a canvas backpack. “I figured I’d change into my formal wear for when we go house hunting.”

“Always important to impress the co-op boards.” After Jason’s morning workout, Claire was supposed to capture his search for the perfect abode in his new hometown. She couldn’t wait to see what marvel of mirrored glass and steel he would choose for himself. Her image of bachelor jocks living alone fit with some slick, Donald Trump skyscraper on the Upper East Side.

“Vernon not joining us?” She let the doorman hail a taxi out front.

“No, he has to hold some Romanian gymnast’s hand today. I’ve been upstaged by an eighty-pound tumbler.” He didn’t look stricken. “What about Trish? Still too early for her nail polish to dry?”

“Don’t be so hard on Trish.” Claire defended her friend, even though there might be a grain of truth in Jason’s crack. “She may get a little carried away at times—”

“Trust me. No man would ever complain about a woman getting carried away. At anytime.”

Claire frowned and was about to snap back a retort when she caught herself. Jason had this unerring way of getting her goat. She had always considered herself fairly immune to “male speech.” After years of living in close quarters with war correspondents and soldiers, she had developed a tough skin when it came to many things—constant innuendos being only one of them.

But conversations with Jason seemed to leave her as vulnerable as a schoolmarm. Why did he always seem to know which button to push? She must be getting soft in her old age. These days, after all, she was in the habit of sleeping on clean sheets—Pratese, Trish had informed her—and having a cleaning lady to do her wash—never had her T-shirts been so cuddly soft and April-fresh smelling.

That was it! It was all that fabric softener. It was affecting her brain as well as her nasal passages.

Satisfied that she had a petrochemical explanation for her softening response system, Claire squared her shoulders with a renewed sense of self-confidence and replied with her customary glibness. “I must remember that insight the next time the Secretary General of the United Nations asks me for my opinion on global warming. In the meantime, I’d like to discuss some of Patti’s other admirable traits.”

“Patti?” A taxi pulled up, and Jason gave the address.

“Sorry, Trish. Trish used to be known as Patti back in high school, but she decided to change it.”

“Before or after sleeping with the sports editor?”

Claire turned to him in the back seat of the taxi. “As surprising as this may be to you, the change was not part of some post-coital response. ‘Oh, now that I am a woman, I think I’ll change my name to Trish.’”