The Doctor's Perfect Match

In other words, Marci Clay was the kind of woman who would catch any man’s eye.

But perhaps not for the right reasons, Christopher acknowledged. And her reaction to his appreciative perusal Saturday night indicated she knew that.

Her eyelids fluttered open, propelling him forward. If she caught him staring again, he suspected she’d hustle him out the door faster than a sand crab could scuttle back to its hole.

That suspicion was confirmed by the wariness in her deep green irises as he approached. While he couldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that sparked in their depths as he pulled up a chair beside her, he did his best to ignore them.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he withdrew a disposable thermometer from his bag and tore off the wrapping. “Open up. We’ll have a reading in sixty seconds.”

He slid it under her tongue, and as they waited he took her wrist to check her pulse. Strong, if a bit fast. No problem there. He was more concerned about the subtle tremors beneath his fingertips. They could be due to weakness. More likely, though, they were fever-related chills. From the heat seeping through his glove, he knew he wasn’t going to like her temperature.

Withdrawing the thermometer, he checked the reading. The number didn’t surprise him. “A hundred and two.”

She grimaced.

After slipping the thermometer into a small waste bag, he gave her his full attention. “Any idea what’s going on?”

She shook her head.

“When did this start?”

“Yesterday.”

“Anything hurt?”

“Throat.”

“Any other symptoms?”

Again she shook her head.

Withdrawing a tongue depressor and penlight from his bag, he scooted closer to her. “Let’s have a look.”

As she opened her mouth, he inserted the tongue depressor and flashed the light to the back of her throat. Swelling and severe inflammation. Depositing the depressor in the waste bag, he reached over to gently feel the lymph nodes in her neck. Puffy.

She winced and tried to pull away. “Hurts.”

“Sorry.” He let her go and leaned back. “I think we may be dealing with a case of strep throat.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, and he watched her lashes grow spiky with moisture.

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world.” To his surprise, the reassurance came out soft and husky. He cleared his throat. “You’ll be back on your feet in a few days with the right care.”

“I don’t have a few days.” She opened her eyes, blinking away the tears as she rasped out the shaky words.

He heard the panic in her voice and knew she was thinking about her duties at The Devon Rose.

“We’ll get you well as fast as we can, okay?”

“Wednesday?”

He’d have liked to say yes, but he couldn’t lie. “I doubt it.”

“When?”

“Why don’t we verify the strep diagnosis first?” Once more he turned to his bag, pulling out a small kit. “This is a rapid strep test. It will give us an answer in a few minutes. I see quite a few pediatric patients in my family practice, so I always have one of these with me. They come in handy, especially for the younger set. Not that you’re over the hill, by any means.” He smiled, trying to put her at ease as he set up the test.

The ploy didn’t work. She eyed his preparations and gestured toward the kit. “How much?”

It took a moment for him to grasp that she was asking the price of the test. As Edith had implied, money must be tight.

“I get free samples all the time. I try to pass that benefit on to my patients.” While that was true, this kit wasn’t a freebie. But she didn’t have to know that.

Without giving her a chance to pursue the subject, he instructed her to open her mouth again and proceeded to swipe her throat with a long cotton swab. When he finished, he dipped the swab in a solution and placed a few drops on a test strip.

“While we wait for the results, let’s assume it’s strep and talk about treatment.” He peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the waste bag. “Do you have any medicine allergies?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Let’s go with penicillin.” He started to pull a prescription pad out of his pocket.

“Won’t this…” She stopped. Swallowed. Winced. “Won’t this go away by itself?”

The money thing again, he realized.

“Yes. Usually in three to seven days.” Leaving the prescription pad in his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky, and it will be gone in three days.” She pulled her robe tighter as a shiver rippled through her.

“Maybe. But antibiotics shorten the time you’re contagious.”

“By how much?”

“Most people stop being contagious twenty-four to forty-eight hours after they begin treatment. Without the pills, you could pass germs for two to three weeks, even if your symptoms go away. Not the best scenario in a restaurant.”

As he checked the test strip, he tried to think of a diplomatic way to offer further assistance. Flipping it toward her, he indicated the test window. “Positive.”

She groaned, and her expression grew bleak.

Dropping the strip into the waste bag, he sealed the top. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a few samples of penicillin that will get you started.” He removed a packet of four pills from his bag and handed them to her. “On my way back from the hospital later, I’ll swing by my office and raid the sample closet. I think I can come up with enough to see you through. That way you won’t have to run out to a pharmacy to get a prescription filled and spread germs all over town. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for creating a public-health menace.” He tried another grin.

It didn’t work.

Marci fingered the sample packet, her manner once more wary. “I’m not in the habit of accepting favors.”

At her suspicious look, he concluded that other men who’d done favors for her had expected a payback.

The thought sickened him.

“No strings attached, okay?” He held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe that not all men were crass or untrustworthy.

She searched his eyes, and after a few seconds he detected an almost imperceptible softening in her features.

“Do you have any over-the-counter medicine in the house that will help with the fever? Aspirin, ibuprofen?” Picking up his bag, he rose.

She looked up at him from beneath those impossibly long lashes and nodded.

“Take them on a regular basis. Drink lots of water. Rest. I’ll leave the samples hanging on your doorknob after my shift in the E.R. That way I won’t disturb you if you’re resting.”

He headed toward the door, and she trailed behind him. Pausing on the threshold, he withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you feel worse, or things don’t improve by tomorrow, call me.”

A few seconds ticked by as she read the card. Blinked. Swallowed. Lifting her chin, she looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”

The expression of gratitude was delivered in a soft, shy tone that revealed an unexpected—and touching—vulnerability.

On Saturday night, he’d been drawn to her physical appearance. But right now he found her appealing in a different way. Although she was a little thing—a good eight or nine inches shorter than his six-foot frame, he estimated—she radiated a quiet strength and dignity that he sensed had been hard-earned. Marci Clay, he suspected was a survivor.

Yet that didn’t jibe with the air of defeat and distress he’d picked up from her on Saturday.

So perhaps he was misjudging her character—as he’d misjudged Denise’s.

That was a sobering thought.

Easing back a step, he gave her a brief, professional smile. “No problem. This is what being a doctor is supposed to be about. Now get some rest and take your medicine. You should feel much better by tomorrow. And if all goes well, I expect you can be back on the job by Thursday.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he descended the porch steps and strode toward Edith’s house, where he’d left his car.

As he set his bag on the backseat, he glanced toward The Devon Rose. The door was closed, but he detected a movement behind the lace curtain that screened the drawing room from the scrutiny of passersby. Had Marci been watching him?

The possibility pleased him—for reasons he didn’t care to examine.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he sent a quick look toward Edith’s house. And noticed the same phenomenon: a movement behind the sheer curtains at her living-room window. Had the older woman been observing him, too?

Considering the gleam he’d noticed earlier in her eyes, that notion didn’t please him. On the contrary, it made him uncomfortable.

Edith Shaw was gaining a reputation as a matchmaker, thanks to her part in pairing two couples in the past two years. And he did not want to be her next victim.

Even if she had her sights set on a match as lovely as Marci Clay.

Chapter Two

“The Devon Rose.”

“Marci? It’s J.C.”

“J.C.!” Setting aside a measuring cup, Marci tucked the phone closer to her ear and gave her brother her full attention. “How’s Paris?”

“Romantic.”

She grinned. “I’ll bet. And how’s Heather?”

“Happy. Gorgeous. Irresistible.”

A female giggle sounded in the background, followed by a chuckle from J.C. Marci smiled. It was good to hear her big brother sounding lighthearted. He’d had more than enough worry to last a lifetime.

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Will do. How’s everything going?”

“Good. I’m whipping up a batch of scones from her recipe as we speak.”

No way did Marci intend to tell them she’d been sick. They deserved a carefree honeymoon. Besides, the penicillin had vanquished the strep throat in less than forty-eight hours. While she hadn’t yet regained full strength, Christopher Morgan’s prediction that she’d be back on the job by Thursday appeared to be coming true. She’d let Edith and Julie handle the tearoom today, but now that the last of their Wednesday guests had departed, she felt well enough to do a little baking.

“I told Heather you’d breeze through. But you know how to reach us if you need us.”

“Your itinerary and contact numbers are taped to the fridge. I check them every morning so I can live your European tour vicariously. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to the real thing.” She tried for a teasing tone, but couldn’t quite pull it off. The truth of the statement was too depressing.

“Hey, your turn will come.”

She tried again to lighten her tone. “Anything is possible, right?”

“With God.”

At his quiet response, she stopped pretending. Looking out the window, she watched a bird take flight and aim for the sky. “He and I aren’t well-acquainted.”

“You could be.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“No. And look how my persistence paid off with Nathan.”

“That was different. Trust me. I’m a lost cause.” The swinging door from the dining room opened as Edith bustled through with a tray, and Marci used that as an excuse to change the subject. “Look, we’re in cleanup mode here, so I need to get back to work. Besides, I’m sure you have better things to do on your honeymoon than talk to your sister.”

Is that J.C.? Edith mouthed, her eyes lighting up.

Heather nodded.

“Tell him I said hi,” she whispered. “Heather, too.”

“Edith says hi to you both.”

J.C. chuckled. “I’ll pass that on. Call us if you need us.”

“I will. Don’t worry about anything here. You just have fun.”

“We intend to. Talk to you soon.”

As the line went dead, Marci set the portable phone back in its holder on the counter and picked up the measuring cup.

Edith planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I get a report?”

“I didn’t ask for details.” Marci filled the cup with flour and leveled it off. “But I got the impression they’re enjoying themselves. And J.C. sounds happy.”

The older woman’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Excellent. I knew those two were meant for each other from day one. But getting them to see that took a bit of work.”

From Heather, Marci had heard all about Edith’s penchant for matchmaking. Although The Devon Rose proprietress claimed her neighbor’s efforts hadn’t had that much impact on her relationship with J.C., it was obvious Edith felt otherwise. Why disillusion her?

“All I know is I’m grateful their paths crossed. I’d given up on J.C. ever finding a wife.”

“It was just a matter of meeting the right woman. Or, in Heather’s case, the right man.” Edith began empting the tray. “And speaking of men…is there some handsome man pining away for you back in Chicago?”

Only if you counted Ronnie at the diner, Marci thought as she dumped the flour into a mixing bowl. And by no stretch of the imagination could the fifty-something cook with the receding hairline and prominent paunch be called handsome.

“No. Men are more trouble than they’re worth.”

Edith shot her a startled glance. “Goodness. That’s exactly what Heather used to say. Until J.C. came along, that is.” The older woman picked up the empty tray and headed back toward the dining room, pausing on the threshold. “By the way, I saw Christopher Morgan at a meeting at church last night. He asked how you were doing. He’s single, you know.”

With a wink, Edith pushed through the swinging door and disappeared.

Flummoxed by both the comment and the unexpected little tingle that raced up her spine, Marci stared after her. Was Edith hinting that the doctor was interested in her? That the two of them…

No. She cut off that line of thought. It was preposterous. They knew nothing about each other. Meaning that if the man was interested in her, it was for the wrong reasons. And hormones were no basis for a relationship. She’d been there, done that. Repeating the experience held no appeal.

Yet…she did owe him a thank-you for his visit on Monday. Without his intervention, she’d probably still be out of commission. Somehow a note didn’t seem sufficient. Perhaps she could offer a small token of appreciation?

As she stirred the dough, she mulled over the problem. What was an appropriate gift for a man? Most men didn’t appreciate flowers. A CD would be okay, except she didn’t know his taste in music.

Gathering the dough together with a few quick kneads, she dropped it onto the floured counter. And as she began rolling and cutting out the scones, the ideal solution came to her: food. What man didn’t like home-cooked food? Bachelors, in particular. She had a killer recipe for chocolate-chip-pecan cookies.

Or better yet, why not send him a gift certificate for the tea room? He could even bring a date if he wanted to. Perfect.

Placing the scones on a baking sheet, she slid them into the oven as Edith returned to the kitchen.

“Julie’s almost finished refilling the sugar bowls.” The older woman set another tray of plates on the counter and moved toward the refrigerator. “I’ll work on the jam and clotted cream for tomorrow. Another full house, according to the reservation book.”

Casting a speculative look at Edith, Marci considered asking her if she knew Christopher Morgan’s home address. According to Heather, the older woman was well-connected on the island. Even though she and Chester weren’t natives, they’d embraced island life after their move to Nantucket a dozen years ago following Chester’s retirement.

But she quickly nixed that notion. In light of Edith’s implication that the man was interested in her, she didn’t want to encourage any romantic plans her neighbor might be concocting. Especially since the Lighthouse Lane matriarch would have plenty of time and opportunity to implement them. Marci did not want to be dodging matchmaking attempts while living in the cottage behind Edith’s house during her month-long vacation—J.C.’s graduation present to her.

It would be far safer to find the good doctor’s address on her own.

Leaning his bike against the wall of his tiny ’Sconset cottage, Christopher shuffled through his mail as he walked to the back door, feet crunching on the oyster-shell path. Bill, bill, ad, postcard from Bermuda—he flipped it over and read the message from his brother, grinning at his seven-year-old nephew’s scrawled signature that took up half the writing area.

“Hey, there, Christopher.”

Looking up, he smiled at his elderly landlord on the other side of the picket fence that separated the yards of their adjoining cottages, which backed to the sea.

“Hi, Henry. What’s up?” He strolled over, giving his neighbor a swift assessment.

“Now, you put away those doctor eyes of yours.” The man shook a finger at him. “Don’t be sizing me up every time we talk just because I had a bout of pneumonia last winter. I hope you’re as resilient as I am at eighty-four.”

A chuckle rumbled in Christopher’s chest. “I do, too.” In the past two years, since Christopher had rented Henry’s second, tiny cottage, the older man had bounced back from the few ailments he’d experienced.

“Any good mail?”

At Henry’s question, Christopher began riffling through the letters again. “Mostly bills and ads. But I did get a postcard from my brother.” He handed it over.

Pulling a pair of wire-rimmed glasses out of his shirt pocket, Henry examined the photo of the expansive beach. “Pretty, isn’t it? Always wanted to see that pink sand.” He handed it back.

“Would you still like to go?”

“Nope. Did plenty of gallivanting in my army days. I’m happy to be an armchair traveler now. Don’t have to worry about terrorists on airplanes or fighting crowds or losing luggage. You can’t beat the Travel Channel.” He leaned closer to Christopher and peered at one of the envelopes in his hand. “That looks interesting.”

Christopher checked out the return address. The Devon Rose. That was interesting.

Slitting the envelope, he pulled out a single sheet of paper folded in half. Inside he found a gift certificate and a short note written in a scrawling hand.

Dr. Morgan:

Thank you for your assistance on Monday. The penicillin took care of the problem. Please enjoy tea for two as a token of my appreciation.

It was signed by Marci Clay.

It would be difficult to imagine a more impersonal message. Yet Christopher’s heart warmed as he ran a finger over the words inked by Marci’s hand.

“Maybe interesting wasn’t the right word.”

As Henry’s eyes narrowed in speculation, heat crept up Christopher’s neck. “It’s a gift certificate. I did an impromptu house call a few days ago, and the patient was grateful. You ever been here?” He waved the envelope at Henry, hoping to distract him.

It didn’t work.

“Female patient?”

The man might be old, but he was still sharp, Christopher conceded. And if he tried to dodge the question, Henry would get more suspicious. “Yes. Her brother just married the owner, and she’s running the place while they’re on their honeymoon. Hence the invitation.” Christopher paused as an idea took shape. “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?”

“I stopped counting those long ago.”

“June eighth.” Christopher had jotted the occasion on his calendar. Henry might pretend not to care about his birthday, but he’d been thrilled last year when his tenant had treated him to an upscale dinner at The Chanticleer. “How about you and I give this a try on your big day?” He held up the gift certificate.

Sliding his palms into the back pockets of his slacks, Henry bowed forward like a reed, his knobby elbows akimbo, his expression dubious. “Kind of fancy-schmancy, isn’t it?”

“You deserve fancy on your birthday.”

“You ought to take some pretty little lady to a place like that.”

An image of Marci flashed through his mind, but Christopher pushed it aside. “Pretty little ladies seem to be in short supply these days.”

“You’re not looking in the right places, then.”

“I’m not looking, period.”

“I know.” Henry sighed. “But you’ve got to move on, Christopher. You can’t let one bad experience ruin your life. I learned that after Korea. Lots of the guys in my outfit couldn’t get past the bad stuff once they came home. Haunted them for the rest of their lives. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. You’re thirty-six years old. You should have a wife and a bunch of kids by now.”

“I’ll get around to that one of these days.”

“You said that last year.”

Christopher laid a hand on the older man’s bony shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, Henry. But this is best for now.” He lifted the certificate again. “In the meantime, do we have a date?”

The man grinned. “I expect we do. Shall I break out my tie?”

“I will if you will.”

“It’s a deal.”

As Marci returned from showing two guests to their table, a tall man with deep blue eyes, dressed in khaki slacks and a navy blue blazer, stepped into the foyer of The Devon Rose.

Christopher Morgan.

He smiled when he saw her, the fine fan of lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re looking a lot better.”

A disconcerting ripple of warmth spread through her as he drew close, and she wiped her palms down her slim black skirt. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

“That’s good news.” He held up a familiar piece of paper. “I’m here to redeem my gift certificate.”

Julie must have taken the reservation, Marci concluded, skimming the names on the day’s seating chart. There it was. Morgan. Table six. For two.

He’d brought a date.

Her warm feeling evaporated.

Steeling herself, she looked up again, expecting to see some gorgeous female lurking behind him.

Instead, a wiry, wizened old man with thin, neatly combed gray hair popped out and grinned at her. But he directed his question to Christopher.

“Is this the lady who sent you the certificate?”

“She’s the one.”

Henry’s grin broadened as he inspected Marci. “It’s my birthday. Eighty-five years and counting.”

“Wow! That does deserve a celebration.” Marci smiled back.

“At my age, every day I wake up is worth celebrating.” His eyes twinkled as he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Henry Calhoun. I’m Christopher’s neighbor. Nice to meet you.”

She returned his firm shake. “Marci Clay.”

“Nice place you have here.” He perused the foyer and grand staircase. “My wife came here once, years ago. Had a great time, as I recall.”

“We’ll do our best to see that you do, too.”

The front door opened again, admitting more patrons, and Christopher turned to his companion. “We’d better let Ms. Clay show us to our table, Henry.”

“Maybe she can stop by and chat with us again later.” The older man gave her a hopeful look.

“I’d be happy to.”

She led the way to their corner table in one of the twin parlors, offering them a tea menu. “Julie will be back in a few minutes to answer any questions and take your tea order. Enjoy the experience.”

“We will,” Henry assured her. “I even wore a tie for the occasion.” He flapped the out-of-date accessory at her.

Marci did her best to stifle a grin. Based on width alone, the tie had to be at least twenty years old. “You look very spiffy.”

“Spiffy?” Christopher’s mouth tipped up in amusement, distracting her. He had nice lips, she noted.

Jolted by that observation, she summoned up a frown to counter it. “What’s wrong with spiffy?”

“Nothing. It’s just a rather old-fashioned term.”

“Maybe she’s an old-fashioned girl,” Henry chimed in. “And if you ask me, no one’s ever come up with a better compliment than spiffy. Thank you, my dear.”

“You’re very welcome. I’ll be back a little later to see how you enjoyed the tea.”

Returning to the foyer, Marci continued to seat the guests, mindful of the pair of men at the corner table every time she entered the sitting room. Once the tea got underway, however, she worked a wedding shower in the dining room while Julie handled the twin sitting rooms on the other side of the foyer.