her shaking hands and clattered to the floor.
“What was that?” Nick called from the living room.
“Nothing.” She bent down and retrieved the phone. “It doesn’t matter who he is,” she whispered. All that mattered was that he could make Nick well. She set the phone on the counter and went into the small room she used as a home office.
She sat down at the computer and typed in Kent’s name. Funny, she’d never even imagined doing that before. She’d closed the door on Kent Berger years ago just as he had on her. She’d never let herself wonder where he was and if he were doing something important. Now she had to know.
The search engine turned up dozens of articles in medical journals, some she even recognized, like the New England Journal of Medicine. He’d given seminars and interviews to the media and was considered one of the top specialists in the U.S. on childhood leukemia—acute myelogenous leukemia, Nick’s type, in particular.
So it didn’t matter that she knew him, that she’d once thought she’d spend the rest of her life with him. It didn’t even matter that he’d lied to her about their future. She could handle seeing Kent again. All that was important was that he could make Nick well.
He probably wouldn’t even remember her. She’d been a brief diversion for him, nothing more. To him, their love affair hadn’t been a life-changing event. He didn’t know the aftermath of that long ago summer—Nick.
Should she tell him? No, she thought fiercely. If he found out Nick was his child, he’d turn Nick’s care over to someone else, someone who might be only second best. This wasn’t about Kent’s rights; it was about Nick’s. And with her son’s life at stake, she couldn’t take chances.
Kent Berger may have given Nick life, but he hadn’t been Nick’s parent. But now, please, God, he’d make up for that. He’d save the life of the son he would never know he’d fathered.
Two days later, sitting in her son’s hospital room at Gaines Memorial, Mallory watched Nick’s small chest move up and down. Worn out from yesterday’s plane trip and the clinic visit this morning, he’d fallen asleep as soon as he’d gotten into bed. He’d been stoic in the face of technicians bearing needles and residents poking and prodding, but Mallory had to admit that the clinic itself had a lot to do with his bravery. For a place that specialized in children who were sick, it was remarkably cheerful and welcoming.
As Catherine predicted, Nick was admitted to the hospital that afternoon. Mallory hated hospitals—the sounds, the smells—but she chose to view Gaines Memorial as a battle station in the war against Nick’s disease. She would not let the environment depress her, or Nick, either. She hung up the New York Yankees banner he’d brought along, and as soon as she could, she went down to the gift shop and bought a painting of bright yellow chrysanthemums and a grinning stuffed monkey to liven up his room.
Now Mallory glanced at her watch. Still a long time before the doctor was due. She intended to think of Kent Berger as “the doctor,” or if necessary as “Dr. Berger, without a first name.” Nothing personal. She would not remember summer nights in his arms, the taste of his lips, or the scent of his skin.
She stood and paced the small room. If she was jittery, she had every right. Today, or tomorrow at the latest, the verdict on her son’s future would be delivered.
She had plenty of time to call her parents, Dean’s parents, and Lauri and let them know how the day had gone. With another glance at Nick to assure herself he slept peacefully, she left the room, found a small waiting area down the hall and took out her cell phone. She checked to be sure she could use her cell in this area of the hospital, then dialed.
Her calls took a good fifteen minutes. She had so much to say, and yet so little. But she could give the people waiting at home some reassurance. She’d brought Nick to a good place. She hung up and, trying to ignore her aching feet, headed back to his room.
A nurse hurried out of his door. Was something wrong? Propelled by fear, Mallory dashed forward, then halted in the doorway, unable to take another step, as a hauntingly familiar voice reached her ears.
He sat by the bed, his head bent close to Nick’s. He was talking baseball and he had the boy’s full attention.
He must have come directly from the airport because he wore a white dress shirt that contrasted starkly with his tanned skin. His shoulders were slightly broader than she remembered, his chest wider, but no gray marred the thick, dark hair. The hand that lay lightly on the bed rails was the same, too—lean, strong.
He hadn’t changed. And oh, God, she’d never realized how much Nick looked like him. The shape of his face, the way he cocked his head to listen, even the half smile. She’d never let herself notice. Would he?
Please, no, she begged. She must have made a sound of supplication, because he looked up.
And for the first time in eleven years, she stared into his eyes.
Chapter Three
He didn’t recognize her.
His expression was cordial, but she saw no hint of awareness in his gaze.
What made her think he would remember? What made her believe she’d meant enough to him to remain in his mind? Pride forced her to square her shoulders and step into the room. She’d deal with her feelings of hurt and anger later. What mattered now was Nick.
As she came into the room, Kent smiled and extended his hand. “Mrs. Bren—”
His hand froze in midair. He glanced at the chart on the stand beside him, then up again. “Mallory Brenner…Mallory Roseman?”
Her breath backed up in her lungs. He did remember her after all. Silently, she nodded.
“You…cut your hair,” he blurted, his words seeming to surprise him as much as they did her. His cheeks flushed, and abruptly his eyes swung back to his hand, still suspended. He reached out and, reluctantly, Mallory did the same.
Their hands met above the bed where Nicholas—where their son—lay staring at them with curiosity. “You guys know each other?”
“We did, years ago,” Mallory muttered and managed a casual shrug. She hoped she communicated that whatever had happened between them was inconsequential and done with long ago. Realizing she still grasped Kent’s hand, she let it go and stepped back. What she needed now was his medical skill. “About Nick—” she began.
“Yes. Why don’t you sit down,” Kent suggested, “and we’ll talk about what happens next.”
His voice was calming, and Mallory remembered again the little boy he’d spoken to at the pool that long-ago summer morning. She took a chair beside the bed.
Kent turned to Nick. “Nick, you’ve had some people sticking you today, and they tell me you’ve been very brave.”
“Is the sticking over?” Nick asked.
“I’m afraid not. Tomorrow morning you’re going to have a spinal tap.” Gently, matter-of-factly, he explained the procedure.
Nick’s hand slid to Mallory’s and clasped it tightly, but his eyes were glued to Kent’s. When Kent asked if he understood, he nodded. “I won’t cry,” he said.
