The Wilders

The windshield had shattered, as had one of the side windows. His attention never leaving the victim, Peter pointed that out to her.

“Call 911,” he instructed.

She nodded, already pulling her cell phone from her coat pocket. “You forgot your coat.” She handed Peter the garment and then quickly hit the three crucial numbers on her phone’s keypad.

Someone picked up immediately.

As she spoke to the dispatcher on the other end of the line, Bethany watched Peter drape his coat over the driver in an effort to keep the teenager warm.

But not before he began ripping a strip of the lining out.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

The lining resisted but finally separated from the coat. “Trying to stop the bleeding.”

“With the lining from your overcoat?” she asked incredulously.

“It’s not the most hygienic way to go,” he agreed, “but it’s all I’ve got unless I use my shirt.” Even as he wrapped the material around the young man’s arm, he could feel Bethany staring at him. “What?” he finally asked.

“Did it ever occur to you that if something goes wrong, this guy you’re working over might just turn around and sue you? And if he doesn’t, maybe his parents will?”

Peter shook his head. He couldn’t think about things like that now. It wasn’t the way he operated. “Frankly, no,” he admitted freely. “I have people like you for that.”

Chapter Nine

The police and paramedics arrived less than ten minutes after Bethany had placed the 911 call. The sounds of their approaching sirens created a chilling cacophony of noise.

Peter gave as much information as he could to both the paramedics and the fresh-faced officer who looked as if he was only minutes out of the academy. In the case of the latter, Peter began by saying that he didn’t really have much to offer. He hadn’t witnessed the accident and he wasn’t acquainted with the victim, who was still unconscious. The officer clearly wished he had more information.

The paramedic appeared pleased with not only Peter’s recitation of vital signs, but what he had done while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Bethany realized that the two knew each other by the way the paramedic spoke.

“Nice work, Doc. If you hadn’t been here to stop the bleeding, we’d be taking this kid down to the morgue instead of to the hospital.” As carefully as possible, he and his partner transferred the teenager from the ground to the gurney they’d taken from the back of the ambulance.

Stepping out of their way, Peter brushed away the compliment. At this point in his career, saving lives was second nature to him.

He nodded back toward the parking lot. “I’ll get my car and follow you in,” he said to the lead paramedic, then bent over to retrieve his bloodstained and rumpled overcoat.

“See you there,” the paramedic told Peter just before he closed and secured the rear doors of the ambulance. Walking to the front of the vehicle, he opened the driver’s side and got into the cab.

Bethany looked at Peter. “You’re going back to the hospital?”

Peter brushed off as much snow as he could before putting his overcoat back on. She sounded surprised, he thought, trying to gauge her tone. “Yes.”

She wanted to dissuade him. His hours were over. The man wasn’t a robot. “Whoever’s on call at the E.R. can take care of him.”

It didn’t matter who was on call. The teenager had become his patient the moment he’d applied the makeshift bandage to his wound. “I started this, I might as well finish it.”

He actually meant that. He was willing to give up his evening, his free time, for a stranger. She looked at him for a long moment. Everything he’d said before wasn’t just lip service or arguing for argument’s sake. Though she tried not to be, Bethany had to admit she was impressed.

“You really are as dedicated as they say, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea what they say.” He didn’t do things based on what someone else might or might not say or think. He did things because they were the right things to do. “So I can’t answer that.” To his surprise, instead of saying anything, Bethany placed herself in front of him, blocking his path to his car, and began unbuttoning his overcoat. What was this all about? “What are you doing?”

“You mis-buttoned your coat,” she said, beginning to rebutton the overcoat correctly. “Not that putting the right button into the right hole really matters. You still look like a homeless person,” she declared. Stepping back, she shook her head. His coat was a mess. “You’re not going to be able to get that blood out.”

Peter glanced down at his coat. She was probably right. “Small price to pay for saving a man’s life,” he commented.

She tried to picture her father saying that with any kind of true feeling and couldn’t. Her parents had a completely different set of sensibilities than Wilder obviously did. And there was something almost hypnotically fascinating about his world.

About him.

The unbidden, fleeting thought jarred Bethany right down to the roots of her teeth.

Maybe hypothermia was setting in and she was hallucinating. She really wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Especially not since he’d kissed her.

Peter paused for a moment. “You’ll be okay going home?” Because if she felt uneasy for some reason, then he’d follow her home before going to the hospital.

What a strange question, she thought. The man was a roving, card-carrying knight in shining armor.

“I have been up to now,” she assured him. She had no idea why she added, “So I guess the cup of coffee is over.”

He’d begun to walk to his car and stopped to look at her. A strange pang nipped at his stomach. Peter realized that he didn’t want it to be over. But of course it was, and after all, it had only been a cup of coffee, not an actual date. Not even a preliminary meeting to set up a date.

But it could have been.

And then an impulse burst over him. “That fund-raiser Henry’s throwing together, the one to raise money for the new MRI machine …”

Bethany bristled slightly. Wilder made the reference as if she wouldn’t be aware of what the fund-raiser was for without his sidebar. He didn’t think much of her, did he? As the efficiency expert, she was very aware of everything that was going on in the hospital. Maybe even more aware of things than he was. She was in the business of knowing everything about the hospital’s operation.

“What about it?” she asked formally.

“Are you going?”

Why? Didn’t he think she’d attend a fundraiser? “Yes.”

He almost stopped, thinking it wiser to keep his next question to himself. But that same impulse he’d had a moment ago experienced a fresh surge and he heard himself ask, “With anyone?”

“No.” That was the honest answer. The next moment, she backtracked. “I mean—” This was where she pulled a name out of a hat to cover herself. To make it seem that she wasn’t the social loner she actually was. Why she felt her lips moving and heard her voice repeating “No,” she had no idea. The only answer seemed to be that she was turning on herself.

Caught up in her own unraveling, she certainly didn’t expect to hear him say the next words.

“If you’re not going with anyone, would you mind if I took you?”

Stunned, she recovered fast. “No, I wouldn’t mind.” Bethany felt her mouth curving in response. “Are you asking me out, Dr. Wilder—um, Peter?”

He grinned. “I guess I am.”

Say yes. What’ve you got to lose? She took a deep breath. “All right.”

“All right?” he echoed quizzically. He didn’t know if she was agreeing with what he’d just said, or if she was agreeing to go to the fundraiser with him. This woman, above all others, should have come with a set of instructions or some kind of manual.

“All right,” she repeated. “I’ll go to this fundraiser with you. Since we’re both going,” she added. After a slight pause, she added more. “We can economize and use one car. Less gas—”

His eyes met hers. “Bethany.”

His eyes seemed to pin her in place. She stopped in mid-sentence. “What?”

He smiled at her. “You don’t have to justify your decision to me.”

“I’m not,” she said. Lowering her eyes, she addressed her shoes. “I’m justifying it to me.”

“Oh.” Turning the key, he started his car. It instantly hummed to life. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She nodded, rooted to the spot, watching him drive away. Was that a throwaway phrase he’d just uttered, or was he planning on actually seeing her tomorrow? Except for the board meetings and when she deliberately went out of her way to look for him, they didn’t see each other ordinarily.

Her body was tingling when she turned away, whether from the cold or anticipation, she couldn’t decide. She was hoping for the former.

Turning away, she went to her own car a few steps away. She knew what she needed—to make her mind a blank, to think about nothing and no one.

That wasn’t the easiest thing to do, especially not after he’d kissed her.

He’d kissed her.

The thought vividly brought back the sensation. Instantly, she became warm. So much so that for a moment, she simply sat in her car, frozen in the moment. Enjoying the moment.

And then she became disgusted with herself. She was pathetic, Bethany silently chided. Most women her age fantasized about the lovers they’d had; they didn’t go on and on about a single kiss no matter how good, how toe-curling it was.

Enough!

Bethany started up her car and headed toward the residential development where she lived. What she needed, she told herself, was some hot soup and a diverting program on TV.

That’s not what you need, a soft voice whispered in her head.

Maybe not, she countered, banking her thoughts down before they got any more out of hand. But hot soup and TV was what she was going to get.

Peter walked into his house and turned on the light. He stomped his feet on the small scatter rug just inside the threshold, trying to knock as much snow as possible off his shoes.

It had been a long evening. He’d put in another two hours at the E.R., but the teenager, Matthew Sayers, was going to be all right. His parents had all but flown to the hospital the second the police had called them about their son’s car accident. Both had expressed overwhelming gratitude to Peter for coming to Matthew’s aid and for “saving our boy,” as Matthew’s mother had sobbed.

It turned out that the Sayers were quite well-to-do. Matthew’s father was a top-level magazine executive and his mother was an heiress. They had only recently bought their house in Walnut River. They also owned a condo in Manhattan. The senior Sayers wanted to show his appreciation for having his son tended to.

After being enthusiastically pressed several times, Peter had finally made a suggestion to the man, which was how Walnut River General got its first donation toward the MRI machine.

A sense of satisfaction pervaded him.

All in all, it had been a very productive evening. He’d saved a boy and gotten Henry a sizable donation to kick-start the fund-raiser.

He’d also kissed an angel.

The stray thought made him smile. Memory of the kiss had been moved temporarily to the back of the line because of the urgent situation he’d had to deal with, but now it had reappeared at the front, swiftly growing in proportion.

Despite the time that had lapsed, he could still taste her on his lips. Still taste the subtle flavor of ripened strawberries.

The overhead light dimmed for a second, then returned full strength.

Probably the work of the storm, he thought. Outside, the wind was howling and the snow was falling harder. Perfect conditions for a power outage. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a flashlight handy, he decided. Just in case.

He kept a couple of flashlights on the bottom shelf of his anemically stocked pantry. Shrugging out of his overcoat, he left it draped over the first piece of furniture he came to—the sofa.

Bethany was right, he thought, glancing at the coat. It looked like something a homeless man would wear. One particularly down on his luck. He was going to have to see about buying another one. He certainly didn’t want the woman to be embarrassed to be seen with him.

The thought that had just floated through his head bemused him. When, other than at the gala, would that be happening? And why would her feelings about his appearance even come into play? Assuming she had any feelings about his appearance.

His thoughts were definitely going in strange, uncharted directions. Peter pushed the question and its accompanying thoughts away. He had no desire to get emotionally involved with anyone again. He was too weary and too wired at the same time to properly tackle anything right now.

As he walked through the room to reach the kitchen, his eyes were drawn to the envelope that was still lying on the mantelpiece. The envelope with his father’s handwriting on it.

The one he still hadn’t opened.

Haven’t had the time, Peter thought defensively.

Was that it? Was a lack of time the reason he hadn’t opened the envelope, or was it really more of a lack of nerve? Was he afraid of what he might read, what he might discover?

He shook off the thought.

This was ridiculous. He was a grown man, a doctor for God’s sake. He’d had his hand inside a patient’s stomach, dealing with a perforated ulcer, had to face a grieving wife to give her the gut-wrenching news that her husband was gone. Had had to summon the courage to step, at least partially, into his father’s shoes. Those kinds of actions weren’t the actions of a man who lacked nerve.

So why was an envelope causing perspiration to pop out all over his brow?

What was it that he was afraid of?

And then he knew. He was afraid of finding out that rather than a saint, his father had just been a man. Fallible.

Ridiculous. Stop stalling, Wilder.

With determination, Peter walked into his kitchen. Crossing to the pantry, he opened it. The flashlights were just where he’d left them, on the bottom shelf. The pantry contained very little else. A box of matches, a collection of napkins in the corner. Containers of salt, pepper and sugar and one opened box of stale cereal.

Taking the larger of the two flashlights, he checked to see if it worked—it did—and then walked back into the living room. To confront the monster hiding in the closet.

Or lying on the mantelpiece, as it were.

Peter set the flashlight facedown on the mantel and picked up the envelope. After taking a deep breath and then letting it out, he ripped open the envelope. His fingers felt ever so slightly icy.

Inside the envelope was a letter and another, thinner envelope. This one was addressed to Anna.

Was this some kind of a game? Like the little gaily painted wooden Russian dolls, the ones where when you opened one up, exposed another, smaller doll inside, and then another, and another until there were six or more lined up, each one smaller than the last?

Were there other envelopes, addressed to David and Ella, inside this one? Was this some strange inside joke from the grave?

There was only one way to find out.

Bracing himself even as he silently argued that there was no reason to feel this kind of apprehension, Peter decided it might be prudent to sit down before he began to read.

He perched rather than sat on the sofa, tension taking less than subtle possession of his body. The air felt almost brittle as he drew it in.

The letter was handwritten, and reading was slow going. While not illegible, his father’s handwriting was a challenge at times.

“To my son Peter,

From the first moment you drew breath, I have always thought of you as my successor. Not just at the hospital, but with the family as well. I am very proud of the man that you have become. You are so much more than I ever was or could hope to be.”

Peter frowned. What did that mean? An uneasiness continued to build within him. He forced himself to continue reading.

“I don’t want to burden you with this. But you are the only one I can ask to make this decision. You are the only one I can trust with this secret.

By now you’ve noticed that there is a second letter, addressed to Anna. I am leaving it up to you to decide whether or not she would be better off knowing. Knowing what, you may ask. Or perhaps, since you were always so bright, so intuitive, you already know. Your mother always suspected but never asked. I think she was afraid of the truth.

Anna is not your adopted sister, she is your half sister. Her mother was an E.R. nurse who was very kind to me during that period when your mother and I were having such a difficult time together. You were nine at the time so perhaps you don’t remember. Your mother had been suffering from depression, and had retreated to her own world. A world she later emerged from, thank God. But while it was happening, it was terrible for both of us.

I had my work, and you boys, but I felt lost and, in a moment of weakness, I gave in and accepted the comfort of another woman. Anna is the result of that single liaison. Her mother, Monica, knew she wasn’t going to be able to raise her and give her the things she would need to succeed in this life so she gave her up. We agreed that she would leave the baby on the steps of the hospital and that I would “find” her there.

Not long afterward, Monica died in a plane crash. I’ve debated taking this secret to my grave, but part of me felt that Anna should know the truth. That she was always my daughter—and your sibling—in every way. However, if you think that she would be better off not knowing, then burn this letter, and hers as well.

Please don’t think any less of me because of my transgression. I am still your father and I love each of you—and your late mother—very much.

Forgive me,

Your loving father, James.”

Peter sat, holding the letter in his hands and staring at it, his mind completely numb, for a very long time.

Chapter Ten

Peter wasn’t sure exactly how long he sat there. When he finally managed to rouse himself, he felt the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth as he slowly tucked the letter and the other envelope back inside the original one.

Taking a breath, he could feel, awakening inside him, a whole host of emotions warring with one another. Most prominent of all was disappointment, mixed with confusion.

He wished he’d never read the letter, had never been given this burden to deal with.

Never been robbed.

Because that was what it was—robbery, pure and simple. His father’s confession had robbed him of the image that, until this evening, he had carried around with him.

Yes, he knew the man was not a saint, that he was flesh and blood and human, capable of making mistakes. But he’d always assumed that those mistakes would be tied in with judgment calls about his patients. Maybe an occasional failure to diagnose a particularly elusive illness properly.

Never in his wildest dreams would he have believed that his father would be guilty of personal misconduct. He would have gone so far as to swear on a stack of Bibles that his father had never strayed, never cheated on his mother, never been anything but loyal and faithful to everyone he knew, especially to the people in his immediate family.

Instead, James Wilder had betrayed his wife and, in a way, Anna.

No—all of them, Peter thought, trying in vain to bank down the hurt he felt.

This showed him another side to his father, a far more human side than he was willing to cope with at the moment. If his father had done something like this, had hidden a secret of this magnitude, were there other secrets that James Wilder hadn’t admitted to?

Here he was, trying to preserve his father’s legacy and maybe it was all just a huge sham, illusions created by smoke and mirrors to hide the actual man.

Maybe he really didn’t know his father at all.

Who knew, maybe his father would have jumped at the opportunity to have the hospital taken over by an HMO, to have someone pocket all the expenses, pay for everything and ultimately remove the responsibility for judgment calls from his hands.

Maybe …

No. Discovering that his father had had a relationship—and a child—with another woman while married to his mother, didn’t change the things that mattered. The basic things. And it sure as hell didn’t change the man that he was, Peter thought angrily.

He hadn’t based his feelings, his position, on the fact that his father would have done it this way. That his father would have approved of the stand he was taking. Believing that had only served as reinforcement. He, Dr. Peter Wilder, believed in what he’d said to Bethany and to the board. Believed that, when it came to the hospital, the old ways were the best and that Walnut River General would be much better off not being swallowed up whole by a soulless, unemotional conglomerate, no matter what kind of promises were made.

Rising to his feet, he sighed heavily and shook his head. He felt drained and exhausted beyond words.

Peter put the envelope back on the mantelpiece, not wanting to touch it any more right now. Wishing he could wipe its existence from his mind. But he wouldn’t be able to do that, even if he threw his letter and Anna’s into the fire.

“I wish you hadn’t told me this, Dad. I wish you hadn’t passed the burden on to me,” he whispered, aching.

Everything fell into place now. It all made sense to him.

This was why his father always seemed to go out of his way for Anna, treat her differently, share more time with her than he did with the rest of them. It wasn’t because he was trying to make up for her feeling like an outsider. He was doing it because he’d felt guilty about her very existence. Guiltier still because he didn’t tell her she was his real daughter. He had let her go on thinking she’d been abandoned when just the reverse was true. She could have been put up for adoption. Instead, he’d taken her into his family rather than let her go to someone else’s—and have the secret go with her.

His first instinct was to preserve his father’s memory for the others. Because this didn’t just affect Anna, but David and Ella as well. It was a package deal. If he passed this letter on to Anna, once she read it, the others needed to know, too. They needed to know that the family dynamics had changed.

No, Peter thought as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, that was for Anna to decide. If he told her, it would be her secret to share or keep.

He laughed shortly. Who would have ever thought that he would be aligning himself with Anna against his brother and sister?

An ironic smile curved his mouth. That wasn’t altogether right now, was it? Anna was his sister, too.

His sister. His real sister.

Well, that explained why she seemed to have his father’s eyes. Because they were his father’s eyes.

Just when he thought there were no surprises left, he mused, shaking his head sadly.

The letter was no longer on his mantelpiece.

Early this morning, he’d gotten up and decided to leave the thick envelope in his study, in the middle drawer of his desk until he decided what to do with it.

Meanwhile, he was still a doctor with patients, still the chief of staff, albeit temporarily, faced with a supreme dilemma: how to make the rest of the board of directors vote his way regarding the NHC takeover.

Because all options needed to be explored, someone from the grasping conglomerate would be coming at the end of the month to look them over. Supposedly to observe how they functioned, but in likelihood, to attempt to sway them with promises.

If he came out staunchly opposed to the NHC executive’s visit, it would seem to the board that he was afraid of the challenge or the potential changes. Afraid that Walnut River General couldn’t withstand an in-depth comparison to the way hospitals beneath NHC’s massive banner were run.