Janet Evanovich - Thanksgiving

“I have a medical emergency to attend to,” he told his family. “I’ll only be gone a short time. You can have lunch while I’m off doctoring.”

He pointed them in the direction of Christiana Campbell’s Tavern and ran down the path leading to Nicholson Street. He slid behind the wheel of his car, held his breath, and turned the key. Yes! The battery had been baking in the sun and was feeling cooperative.

He slowly chugged out of the historic district and stopped for a red light while he rehearsed his opening line. Hello, Megan, just thought I’d stop by to see how Dave’s duff is doing. Then what? Blank space. He didn’t know then what.

He gripped the wheel more tightly. He’d explain to her about marriage and about being a new doctor. They couldn’t live on his salary. What about her salary?the inner voice suggested. If you combined your incomes and only had one house payment?

He shook his head. It wouldn’t work. He was too busy. She’d feel ignored and resentful of his patients. Baloney, the voice said, she’s just as busy as you. She’d match you pot for patient. But there are other good reasons, Pat argued.

He inhaled sharply as the truth suddenly flashed into his mind. There were no good reasons. He simply wasn’t ready to get married. Could that be true?

He pulled to the shoulder of the two – lane country road. He was no better than Dave! He had a rampant case of yellow belly. His hormones were hot, but his feet were cold. Now what? Now that he knew the awful truth about himself, what was he supposed to do? He made a U – turn and headed back to town. He had to think.

Megan heard the tiny bell ringing and stopped in mid – stride. She gritted her teeth, counted to ten, and took a deep breath. “Yes, Dave?”

“Would it be too much trouble to make me a cup of hot chocolate?” he called from his prone position on the couch. “I don’t want to bother you. If you’re busy you don’t have to make it.”

“No trouble,” Megan said, banging a pot onto the stove. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and already he’d rung that damn bell seven thousand times. If he rang just once more, she’d cut off his hand, she thought with grim cheer.

“Sure is nice of you to take care of me when I’m crippled like this,” he went on. “Too bad your folks had to leave this morning. It was just like old times, having us all together.”

Just like old times, she thought with irritation. Her mother had waited on him hand and foot the day before, feeding his sacred body a week’s worth of groceries in a matter of hours, and her father had spent the entire day debating the value of the football draft. Now she was left alone with dying Dave, making her own feeble attempt to keep him comfortable and amused.

How long did it take for a dart hole to heal, anyway? The man had spent all day Saturday flat on his stomach. Now it was Sunday, and he was moaning more loudly than ever. This was all Patrick Hunter’s fault.

She sloshed some milk into the pot and drummed her fingers on the counter while she waited for it to heat. Patrick Hunter was a no – good rat. First he’d conned her into baby – sitting for Timmy Coogan, and now he’d forced her into baby – sitting for disabled Dave. Patrick Hunter had made her fall in love with him, had lured her into his bed, and then had wimped out. “Men!”

She stormed into the living room and slammed the mug of hot chocolate onto the coffee table. “Anything else?”

“I am a little hungry…”

“Hungry?” she screamed. “There’s nothing left. You’ve eaten it all. All the cereal, all the eggs, all the bread.” She heard the crunch of gravel in her driveway and saw Pat’s car pass by the window.

She flung the door open at the first knock and scowled at Pat. “What do you want?”

Use the honest approach, he decided. First things first. “I want to know if Dave’s here.”

“Yes. Dave is here. So what?”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it? Here’s a news flash. I don’t like it, either, but I can’t get him off my stupid couch. The man is in pain. He can’t walk. He can’t sit. He can’t get dressed.”

Pat stepped into the house. “He can’t get dressed? Are you telling me you’ve got a naked man on your couch?”

“He’s not naked. He’s under a blanket, and he’s a total pain in the backside, if you’ll excuse the expression. I had to play nursey to that bovine boor all day yesterday and half of today, and I’ve had it up to my earlobes. This is your fault. You did this. You fix it. I want him out! Do something!”

Pat grinned. “Leave it to me. I’ll have him fixed up in no time.”

“Meggy?” Dave called. “Who is it? It’s not that lunatic doctor, is it?”

“Yup,” Pat said, walking into the living room. “It’s the lunatic doctor. You’re a lucky guy. Not many doctors make house calls these days.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“Too bad. I brought my little black bag with me, and I’m prepared to relieve your pain. But hey, if you like pain, that’s okay with me.”

Dave looked interested. “I hate pain.”

Pat lifted a corner of the blanket. “Let me just take a peek at this nasty old wound. Hmmm. Not bad. Looks like it’s healing okay.”

He took a disposable syringe and a small vial from his bag. “This is the magic elixir that’s going to get you on your feet. This stuff will get you on the yellow brick road to home.”

“What is it, an antibiotic?”

“Novocain.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dave stood at the front door with his suitcase in one hand and an inflated rubber doughnut under his arm. “You think it’s safe to drive?”

“Absolutely,” Pat said.

Megan waved as Dave drove away. “How long will that Novocain last?” she asked Pat.

“About an hour.” Pat smiled. “A little pain builds character. Besides, he’s got the doughnut, and the wound didn’t look serious. He’ll be fine.”

If a little pain built character, she should be a wonderful person, Megan thought. Too bad you couldn’t take Novocain for a broken heart. She’d been so busy caring for Dave that she hadn’t thought much about Pat. Seeing him in her living room, though, had brought all the sadness back.

She’d really wanted to marry him. Underneath all the craziness about making babies and pretending to be Mrs. Hunter was a genuine desire to spend the rest of her life with him. If her love hadn’t been so deep and so intense, she could have ambled along, being friends and occasionally lovers. But she couldn’t amble with Pat. There would always be the ache of wanting more, and there would always be the bitter knowledge that more wasn’t going to happen.

Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to look at him. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to hear others talk about him. She’d moved to Williamsburg to escape the memories of Dave, and now she was going to run away from everything associated with Pat. She’d pack up her kiln and go somewhere. Anywhere.

“I have a lot of things to do,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Thank you for taking care of Dave. Good – bye.”

“Good – bye?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going? When did you decide this?”

“I don’t know where I’m going, and I just decided.” She carried the hot – chocolate mug to the kitchen and rinsed it out. “I think I’ll move to Alexandria. I sell a lot of my pots there, and it would be closer to the Washington galleries.”

She turned on her heel and practically ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Do it, she told herself. Do it before you start blubbering. Do it before you lose your nerve. Do it before you make a complete fool of yourself and beg him to love you. She pulled a suitcase from under the bed and began throwing clothes into it.

Pat stood in the doorway, watching her, thinking she was the most intriguing, beguiling, impossible creature ever made. She looked like a little girl, with her red hair tied up in a fluffy ponytail, but there was nothing little girlish about the voluptuous body beneath tight faded jeans and a clingy yellow sweater. He was on intimate terms with that body, and the remembrance of evenings past tugged at his heart.

Megan reached into her closet for several blouses, then paused and glared at a long white garment bag. She made a sound of disgust and punched the bag.

“What’s in the bag?” Pat asked.

“None of your business,” she said, smashing the blouses into the suitcase.

“It’s a strange shape for a punching bag.”

“If you must know, it’s my wedding gown.”

His brows rose in surprise. “From Dave?”

“From Dave.”

“Why on earth is it hanging in your closet?”

She stopped packing and stared at the gown. “In the beginning, I didn’t know what to do with it. It cost a fortune. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, and I felt foolish pawning it off on the Salvation Army. I was so filled with bitterness that I decided to keep it as a reminder of my own stupidity. I thought as long as I had that gown in my closet I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Pretty sick, huh?”

Pat smiled. “I don’t know. You’ve developed a decent right hook. You keep that bag around long enough, and we could get you a title bout.”

She stuffed a handful of panties into the suitcase, and he carefully rehung a blouse. She emptied her sock drawer into the bag, and he returned the panties to the dresser.

Megan looked at her empty suitcase in amazement. “What are you doing?”

“I’m helping you unpack.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

He patted her fanny. “You look great in those jeans.”

“Hands off!”

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck.

“Pat!”

“I can’t help myself. Mmmm, you smell nice.”

She wriggled free and snapped her suitcase shut. “I don’t need all that stuff anyway. I’ll go up for a few days, find a place to live, and then return with a U – haul truck.”

“I don’t want you to go, Meg. I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, but I have to go.”

He stalked her around the bed. “Bet I could convince you to stay.”

She looked at him warily. There was only one thing that would convince her to stay, and he wasn’t referring to that.

“I need a good – bye kiss,” he said.

“No good – bye kisses.”

He tackled her and flung her, shrieking, onto the bright red patchwork quilt on her bed. He crawled on top of her before she could scramble off, and kissed her quickly.

Megan immediately stopped shrieking and started kissing. They were good – bye kisses from the very bottom of her soul. Good – bye kisses to last a lifetime and store away in her memory. The good – bye kisses of a woman who knew there would be no more lovers in her future.

Pat drew away and touched her cheek with a trembling hand. “You’re really going.”

“Yes,” she whispered, pulling herself to her feet. She took her handbag and carefully walked down the stairs. You can do this, Megan, she told herself. One step at a time. Soon you’ll be out the door and into your car, starting life over again.

“Meg, you can’t go.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Because I love you, he thought, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words. “Because… because who’s going to eat the turkey leftovers?”

Her mouth dropped open; then she snapped it shut. She went straight to her car and climbed in behind the wheel.

Pat groaned. Lord, that was the wrong answer. This was no time to make jokes. The woman of his dreams was leaving. “Megan…”

She slammed the door, locked it, and gunned the engine. A shower of stones flew behind her as she peeled out of the yard.

Pat ran to his car and took off after her. He had to talk to her. Make her listen to reason. What was reason? That he was an immature jerk and was afraid to sign on the dotted line?

“Okay,” he said, “so I’ll sign. I’ll sign!” He beeped his horn and waved at her. “Pull over!” he shouted.

Megan gripped the wheel and stepped on the accelerator. The car backfired and the valves clattered in protest, but the machine surged forward.

Pat pressed his own accelerator, but nothing happened. He was maxed out at thirty – five miles per hour.

“Piece of junk,” he muttered, fuming. “Ugly, stupid excuse for a car.”

He was relieved to see Megan stopping for traffic ahead. Once she got onto the highway he’d never catch her, but while she was going through the commercial district he had a chance. He stepped on the brake and felt it go clear to the floorboard. He didn’t have any brakes!