He tilted his head, whipped around to leave but turned back just as quickly to hand her a business card. “Call me. We’ll get together.”
With that he was gone, straight back and wide shoulders slicing through the crowd with a confident air until she lost sight of him.
She gazed down at the card bearing his address and phone number in a bold confident font.
Call him? Call a man who’d rattled her self-imposed moratorium on male-female relationships?
Not likely.
CHAPTER TWO
“GOOD case, Dr. Sullivan.”
Seated on a narrow chair in the doctors’ lounge, Cooper lifted one foot to remove the protective shoe coverings. The scent of coffee, too long on the burner, filled his nostrils. His stomach growled but the stale doughnuts on the sideboard held no charm.
He peeled off the blue shoe cover and tossed it into the trash before nodding to the dark-haired female. “Yes, it was. Thanks for your help.”
“A pleasure.” Dr. Genevieve Pennington was a member of Children’s Cardiac Surgical and as such one of his associates. She was also a skilled surgeon as cool under pressure as he. Now she tarried in the doorway of the physicians’ lounge, fiddling with the clasp on a green alligator handbag.
“Some of us are headed to the country club for a drink. Care to join us?”
Cooper glanced up at the attractive doctor, wondering if the invitation was business, pleasure or both. Never mind. He was tired and feeling strangely let down though he couldn’t say why. He loved his work and the surgery had gone better than expected. Normally he enjoyed an active social life, as well, and Dr. Pennington was single, attractive and smart. In the weeks since he’d joined the practice, she’d dropped other subtle hints that he couldn’t miss. They had plenty in common, but he wasn’t sure a fling with a colleague would benefit either of them in the long run.
He shook his head. “Rain check?”
Disappointment flickered briefly on the doctor’s face. “Sure.” She backed out of the lounge, one hand on the door handle. “See you tomorrow.”
“Right—6:00 a.m. atrial-septal defect. I’ll pop up and say hello to the patient and his mother before I head home.”
Home. A town house in East Cambridge. Beautiful, well appointed, empty.
Cooper blew out a tired and somewhat depressed sigh. He didn’t really want to go home. Maybe he’d drive out to see his parents. Or maybe not. He wasn’t up to facing Dad’s dissatisfaction today. Oh, the old man never came right out and said anything, but he’d made his feelings clear. Cooper hadn’t followed his father’s lead. He hadn’t gone to Harvard. He’d chosen medicine instead of politics. Everyone knew the blue-blooded Sullivans were shoo-ins for public office, and with Cooper’s charisma he could have risen to the top. Or so his family thought.
He’d never managed to convince his father that he wasn’t cut out to hobnob with people he disliked, and he wasn’t much on kissing babies. He just wanted to save their lives.
Cooper rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, tense from the five-hour surgery, tenser still from the ongoing knowledge that he’d let his parents down. He’d thought coming back to Boston might help ease the constant feeling of discontent, the need to reach higher and higher, but if anything, being near his family had made it worse.
Quiet settled over the usually busy lounge.
For years he’d strived to be here in this place with these physicians doing this work. All afternoon he’d battled death and won, giving a future to a four-year-old with malformed heart valves. In another place or time the boy would never have lived to adolescence. Now he’d be an old man with grandchildren on his knees.
This was what Cooper wanted out of life. This kind of success. Yet it felt empty.
In a few years, if he worked hard and remained focused, he would be chief of cardiac surgery. Perhaps then he’d experience the sense of satisfaction that always remained just out of reach.
Rolling his head to loosen the kinks, he stretched upward and went to his locker. The day’s personal mail, picked up earlier from the office was stuffed inside, unopened. Flipping through the stack, two caught his eye. His pulse accelerated. Could it be?
He took the innocuous-looking envelopes to a chair and sat down again to slide a finger beneath the flap and remove the letter. As he read, the depression of moments before sailed away. He scanned faster, coming to the final conclusion. They wanted him.
“All right!” he exclaimed.
Growing more energized with every minute, he ripped open the other envelope. After another quick scan, he pumped a fist in victory. “Yes. Yes. Yes!”
He was tempted to jump up and do a happy dance around the empty lounge. This little trick could put him on the map as one of the premier neonatal surgeons on the planet.
Several months ago—he’d forgotten how many—he’d submitted his research and findings on a technique he’d perfected that helped protect a newborn’s still developing brain from damage during a cardio-pulmonary bypass. The science was good. The technique precise. The results stunning.
Now, he held not one, but two letters asking to publish his findings. Both the American Journal of Medicine and the British Lancet, two of the most prestigious medical journals in the world, wanted the article. The news would put his name on the lips of every pediatric surgeon and elevate his status among the powers that be here in Boston. He wanted to be one of the youngest chiefs ever, and the goal grew closer with every breath.
This wasn’t his first publication, but it was the most important. The drive to perfect surgical techniques in newborns was like a living thing inside him. The fate of tiny little human beings with all their lives spread out before them rested in his hands and inside his brain.
The more he studied, the more he tweaked medications and methods, the more lives he saved. These acceptances were more motivation to burn the midnight oil. Who needed rest when so much was at stake?
Needing someone to share his excitement, he whipped out his cell phone and punched in his father’s number. The congressman would be proud of this.
“Cooper?” Randall Sullivan’s voice, strong and confident boomed into his earpiece. “Is that you?”
“Yes, sir. How are you and mother doing?” Get the niceties out of the way first.
“Hale and hearty. Busy as the devil himself.”
“I won’t keep you long, but I did have something to tell you.” A zing of adrenaline had him tapping his foot.
“Hold on a minute, son. I’ve got another call. Governor Bryson’s office.” A click and then silence. Cooper stared down at the letter, rereading the good news while he waited.
Another click and then his father’s voice again, robust and oratorical even to family. “Still there?”
“I’m here, Dad.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, the acceptance letter dangling
