Society of Benevolent Strangers

Chapter 1

Doctor Kathryn Hastings felt the tremor, a vibration beginning in her fingertips, her thumb rubbing slightly against her index finger, as she reached for a scalpel to begin the repair of an aneurysm near Daryl Blanton’s frontal cortex. One, tiny, minuscule slip and Mr. Blanton would come out of surgery a different man than he had gone in.

What was that? Don Farley asked, watching Kate’s hand. He had seen her tremble.

Don, take over for me, please, she spoke quietly to the assisting surgeon. Don Farley looked startled behind his mask for a moment before easily slipping into her spot and taking control. I’ll get Seth in here to assist you.

Kate’s career was over, really over. There was no mistake this time as there were witnesses. Luckily, for Mr. Blanton, it had happened before she started the craniotomy.

Stepping out of the operating room, she dug through her personal items stored in the scrub room locker, pulled out her Blackberry and made a call to request another surgeon immediately. One of her colleagues, Seth Jacobson, could be in the room in less than twenty minutes. Next, she emailed her neurologist, another colleague. Fortunately, Kate was in a practice that employed the best talent to treat her condition; unfortunately, it was the best of the best that required their treatment.

Liz—Walked out of OR—Tremor before movement—right hand. Don observed. Not just my leg or my imagination. Nothing inconclusive about it. The last part of the text was a joke.

Liz had been skeptical when Kate had complained about an odd heaviness in her leg, but the physician had run the usual tests and, as she had predicted, they had come back inconclusive. Liz suggested Kate might be too highly attuned to her body due to her daily yoga workouts, and was possibly mistaking normal signs of aging for something dire.

Dr. Elizabeth Ishikawa had actually hinted that Kate had had an unusually trying couple of years—she had ended her long relationship with a colleague, and several of her most beloved patients had finally succumbed to their own neurological conditions. That she might be imagining symptoms to mask her grief.

It was true that her leg had not bothered her since. Now it was her hand.

If Kate’s self-diagnosis was correct, all Dr. Ishikawa could do was write her a prescription, but only after she had called the hospital to revoke Dr. Hastings’s access to the operating room.

No more neurosurgery.

Before ending the message, Kate added a quick personal note. PS Happy B-day—See U 2nite

* * * * *

Kate took a second deep, steadying breath before walking in the front door of the Ishikawa house that same evening. She had succumbed to bouts of corrosive self-pity and fought waves of humiliation that afternoon. By this time, everyone in the office and neighborhood knew that the great Kathryn Hastings was done. To her face, her neighbors and co-workers would express sympathy or pretend nothing had changed. Behind her back, speculation about HIV and alcoholism would be on the tip of their wagging tongues. It would be understandable if she skipped the party, but the gossip would only get worse.

Seth Jacobson’s wife would have that smug look on her pretty face. Amanda Jacobson wanted Kate out of the practice and, for Amanda, Kate’s illness would be an unexpected gift.

Kate! Liz had seen the silver Lexus convertible with the BRAINDOC vanity plates pull up to the curb. Waiting at the open door, she greeted her colleague and patient with a worried smile. I’m really glad you came, but you didn’t have to.

Might as well get it over with. Kate hugged her hostess–the birthday girl.

How are you doing? Really, Liz asked as Kate handed her a tiny black Jenni K. bag. Inside was the handcrafted amethyst ring Liz had admired when they window shopped in the gallery after lunching at Plum Tree a few weeks earlier.

I’m fine. I keep reminding myself of the pep talks I give my patients and decided I should try to believe them. Kate sighed. This is from the gang.

Ooooo. Now I’m really, really glad you came. I can’t wait to open it! Liz grasped the small treasure and then, putting an arm around Kate, leaned toward her ear murmuring, I want to see you in my office first thing.

Kate, you look great! John Ishikawa exclaimed, joining his wife at the door. He forced a smile with eyes crinkled, almost shut behind stylish glasses, teeth bared in a broad grin. He was chief of surgery at the university hospital. The first person Liz would have called after getting Kate’s message. Kate did look great. Her long, curly, hair hung loose, a style she rarely had time to do right. She wore a casual dark red knit dress that bared her toned arms and shoulders, and then swept to the floor, swirling as she made her way into the party. David Yurman diamonds sparkled at her ears, around her wrist and her neck. Folded over her arm was a colorful shawl on the outside chance that the evening might get chilly. Early June in eastern North Carolina was rarely anything but sticky.

Kate, sweetie, how are you doing? asked Sherry, the office’s billing manager. Touching Kate’s arm as she passed, she gave her a sincere concerned look.

Kate gave the woman a reassuring smile. She was not dead yet. That was what she tried to tell her patients when first hit with a devastating diagnosis. Maybe not in those same words, but life did not end with the onset of disease. Keep on living, don’t give up the fight had been her most heartfelt advice.

Finding her way to the kitchen, Kate noticed the other guests greeted her with either John’s stressed smile, or with Sherry’s concern pasted on their face while she was sure the mantra glad it’s not me, glad it’s not my career looped through their heads. Kate nodded, smiled, murmured appropriately glib responses, and kept moving through the living room to where a chilled bottle of white wine and a perfect crystal glass awaited her.

Seth Jacobson, her business partner and the surgeon who had replaced her in the Blanton procedure, was leaning against the kitchen counter. His expression turned grave when he caught sight of Kate. His wife, her belly rounding slightly under the knit designer dress with an unannounced pregnancy, stood next to him.

Smug, thought Kate, she cannot hide her satisfaction. How peculiar that this woman would try to make her feel as if she were breaking up a marriage when it was Kate who had freed Seth to marry Amanda. He and Kate had never gotten married and Seth had not met Amanda until well after they had split up.

It was not a sordid situation no matter how put upon Amanda acted.

Kate, you look well, Amanda spoke as she glanced over Kate’s shoulder, waved to another arrival and left to greet her friend.

Kate winced inwardly at Amanda’s odd choice of words.

I’m sorry. Seth poured a glass of the Cupcake chardonnay Liz was serving and handed it to her. For a brief moment, Kate thought he was apologizing for his wife, but with his so-serious look of concern, she realized he was referring to her career. He confirmed it by adding, I had hoped just once that you were wrong in your diagnosis.

I’m never wrong. Kate took the wine, sipped it, and sighed softly. For the first time since she started practicing medicine, Kate had really, really hoped she was.

Not this soon, though, he said.

No, not this soon, she agreed.

Liz said she wants to see you in the morning before you leave. Stop by my office on your way out, please. Tell Netta to come find me. Seth patted Kate affectionately on the shoulder, and then catching his wife’s irritated frown, he moved away to talk to the other neighbors clustered around a table laden with party food.

Terri Dawson, Kate’s next-door neighbor and closest friend, sidled up and whispered dramatically, You are the talk of the neighborhood. Walking out of surgery; calling Seth to the rescue. Guess who told?

Mrs. Jacobson? Kate smiled broadly for the first time. Terri would not get weird over it; the pragmatic woman took everything in stride. Her best friend had known about Kate’s possible condition for some time, the only non-medical person in on the secret because Kate had dumped her worries on Terri when she first noticed the symptoms.

Gosh, you’re good. Terri pretended to be surprised by Kate’s guess, almost sloshing the can of Diet Coke on her silk tee.

What’s up? Kate nodded to the non-alcoholic beverage, not a common libation for Terri at a party where she could walk home.

Mallory and a friend are staying with me while April attends that convention in San Diego, remember? They’re going to call when they want me to go pick them up from the rink, reminding Kate that her daughter was at a software conference and that her teenaged granddaughter was visiting. It was always surprising to Kate that she and Terri—who was almost ten years older, nearly fifty-seven, and had led an entirely different kind of life—got along so well.

Where is David? Kate asked politely about Terri’s missing husband.

Out of town, bless him. Terri smiled holding up her soda.

Cheers. Kate tipped her wine glass toward Terri, clinking their glasses together.

Look, sweetie, if this gets too hard, just blow the party, break open the bottle of vanilla rum I put out on the counter, and mix us a couple of those Key Lime Pie things Loretta dreamed up. I’ll be home as soon as I get the girls.

Deal. Let me know when you get the call.

Kate mingled, chatting with her neighbors and co-workers gathered to celebrate Liz’s birthday, accepting the alternating concern and cheer gracefully. Everyone assumed her career was over though she was a neurologist as well as a neurosurgeon. Only one part of her job had changed, albeit the main part, the important part. Seth, Don, and Kate were the surgery gods while Liz and the other two associates were mere mortal neurologists. At least that was Liz’s joke.

As Kate moved from one room to the other, she caught Terri waving to get her attention. Thirty minutes, she mouthed before heading out the front door.

Kate nodded and made her way to the buffet. If she were going to be drinking rum with Terri, she would need something substantial on her stomach. The living room was packed, but Kate managed to slip around the edges without being noticed. She enjoyed overhearing snippets of conversation, always learning something new, picking up a tidbit that might never have been said to her face.

Finally, he’s letting me rip out that awful kitchen. I mean, French country is so... stale. And the granite will only be thirty-five or so to replace with marble. Amanda was holding court, trashing her home’s décor that she believed Kate had selected. Apparently unaware that Peaches Cannon, the woman standing next to her, cheeks flushed bright pink in repressed anger, had done the entire house. ‘Only thirty-five’ referred to the thirty-five grand it would take to replace the countertops. Pocket change for a neurosurgeon’s pretty, young wife.

Kate had not been interested in decorating the house after she and Seth had ended up arguing when she chose something less formal and more eclectic than what he preferred. Her interest dwindled to the point that she would merely pick one of the three items Peaches placed in front of her.

Only after the decorator had consulted with Seth.

Which wallpaper? Which paint chip? Which fabric for the chairs? That one, that one, and that one. Seth could honestly tell people Kate had picked it all even when it was not to her taste.

Peaches joined Kate at the buffet table, desperate to get away from Amanda, and knowing Kate would be sympathetic company. They heaped small cocktail plates with grilled shrimp skewers, wasabi tuna sushi with pickled ginger, and spicy crab wontons before joining Peaches’ husband on the deck.

Dr. Bill Cannon was in deep conversation with another professor from the university. They ignored the women as they sat nearby.

I got the grant paperwork today. It looks like we have a go ahead with testing the system in an extreme rural environment. The approval is for Iraq or Afghanistan, Bill was saying as the other man nodded in agreement.

What’s that about? Kate asked Peaches.

Oh, yes, they have designed a hardened telemedicine system that laymen should be able to use with minimal training. It connects via satellite to a home base and the data package can be beamed to specialists around the world, Peaches explained quickly before returning to the topic at hand. Can you believe her?

She thinks I made the selections. Don’t take it personally. She could care less about the décor. It’s all about hating me, Kate told Peaches.

But you and Seth split up at least a year before he met her. Peaches could not comprehend the other woman’s disdain for the ex-girlfriend.

I thought Seth said you were doing the remodel.

Yes, I’m a glutton for punishment. You were too hands-off, and she has her hands all over everything. Peaches rolled her eyes.

Kate smiled an evil little smile as a cruel thought wove through her damaged brain cells.

Kate, what are you thinking?

We both know that marble is a disaster in the kitchen. It stains. You are in a unique position to lead her slightly astray. They both laughed. No, I can’t do that to Seth, it costs too much. He hates trendy stuff, you know. He likes classic styles. So just put gobs of marabou trim on a lampshade in the foyer. Use hot pink.

Has he seen your place? Peaches had helped Kate with her little patio home, clustered near the clubhouse where her tiny lawn merged into the second fairway.

Yep. Hates it. Kate laughed.

Kate had taken the lead in decorating her five-room house. It was filled with flea market finds and junk-tique gems-in-the-rough. Peaches had loved getting upholsterers and refinishers to repurpose those finds with funky fabric combinations and unique finishes.

A new neighbor interrupted the women. She had seen Peaches designs somewhere and wanted to upgrade her law office’s decor. Kate edged away leaving the two women to discuss business. Her plate was nearly empty, and it was almost time to go drinking with Terri. She turned toward Bill Cannon and nibbled the last of her grilled shrimp while listening to his discussion with the other man.

Their telemedicine project interested her though both men caught up in an animated conversation continued to ignore her.

* * * * *

I thought you would beat me here, Terri said from her position on the cushy lounge chair as Kate slipped in through the screened door.

I had to console Peaches.

Amanda trashing your old house again?

Yep. Kate curled up on the glider and took the drink that Terri held out for her. Vanilla rum, a wedge of lime, and diet Sprite on the rocks made a Key Lime Loretta. Where are the girls?

Upstairs watching TV and daydreaming about vampires, Terri answered.

What? Kate looked aghast.

The new Prince Charming is a vampire named Edward. Terri held up a book with a single red apple on the cover.

Is it good?

I just started it. They wore me down. April and her mother sighing over Edward all the time. It is pretty heady stuff—forbidden love, unrequited lust, fangs.

Hmmm.

I am not so sure they should be feeding young girls this fairy tale nonsense, all this promise of thrilling, burning passion. I think that kind of thing leads to irrational expectations, and irrational expectations lead to affairs and divorce, Terri declared.

So what should we teach them? Kate asked, playing devil’s advocate. To have low expectations?

No! Tell them the truth. I married a good man who works hard for all we have. We have a nice life. Sex is affectionate and comfortable, Terri told her. That’s reality.

Sounds like me and Seth. Kate nodded in agreement until she remembered another man from another time, long ago. But wouldn’t you like to know that Romeo and Juliet really exist out there?

Romeo and Juliet? They died, Terri scoffed.

"Okay, but how about that same passion? The I-will-die-for-you kind of love; the kind where you just look at the guy and he gives you orgasms."

That’s Edward and Bella. Terri tapped the book’s cover then arched an eyebrow and looked at Kate skeptically. Are you telling me you experienced this?

"I had a theory once about the Hope Diamond. It’s actually a good theory, keeps you focused on what’s possible—kind of like the thing you said about irrational expectations.

You know how when you are in the gem display at the Smithsonian? You’re looking at all those huge spectacular stones. Then you stand in front of the Hope Diamond. Gorgeous. Perfect. Unattainable. You never really want it because it’s not even in the realm of possibilities. It would be a waste of energy wanting that one-of-a-kind stone. Some guys are like that, guys who would never look at you twice, so it’s off your radar.

And?

I had a Hope Diamond once. Kate nodded wistfully.

Who? Not Seth. Terri laughed in disbelief. Seth was a good man, but he was no Hope Diamond.

No, not Seth. A guy I dated in college. First love is pretty heady stuff. Kate smiled at the memory. The wine she had earlier and the rum she was currently sipping were finally relaxing her after the long, rough day. Talking about her past was better than thinking about her future. Actually, we graduated in the same class in high school, but we didn’t—what are the kids calling it now? Hook up until our senior year in college. I was absolutely not his type.

What type was that?

Popular and pretty. Kate took another sip of her drink, smiling as images of her first love danced through her mind. He had been very popular, smart and the epitome of masculine beauty.

Will he be at the reunion? Big three-oh next week, right? Terri sat up, suddenly remembering Kate’s thirty-year high school reunion trip.

If he is, he will probably be on his second wife, have three children, two college tuitions and a boring job... bald with a beer gut. And the family dog has fleas. Kate tried not to think about the possibility of a grown-up Clayton Beech being exactly the same golden god he had been.

Well, Kate, look at the bright side. Could be he got hair plugs, started working out, lost the gut, is tired of the trophy wife, and wants someone his own age to talk with. The kids got scholarships—in California—and the dog died. Terri gave her another option.

Why, Terri! I thought you didn’t believe in fairy tales.

Chapter 2

Fall 1979

Kate was tucked into the middle alcove on the second level of Pencader commons. She had rearranged the furniture, so the couch effectively blocked the opening, facing a wall-sized window. A chair sat off to the side, ostensibly saved for a study-buddy. The new configuration discouraged interruptions, hiding her from passing students on their way to the dining hall, to collect their mail, or to see the resident assistant on duty. In the last month, no one had bothered to move the furniture back.

Kate knew that she could have had all the privacy she wanted in her single room on the second floor of K-building. Except in her room, she was easily distracted and felt more alone there than she did when hidden in the busy commons.

Kate had spent the better part of the afternoon reading a manuscript her father had sent her. It was a biology textbook, on neuroscience to be specific, graduate level. Most of it was pretty rote, but it had included some advanced concepts of brain function and chemistry, break-through concepts. Her father was a world-class expert on the brain and the good professor thought his daughter might be interested in it since she was in her senior year working toward a degree in biochemistry with her heart set on earning a medical degree in neurology.

Currently, Dr. Evan Hastings was in London on sabbatical preparing the final draft for a joint publication in The New England Journal of Medicine and Lancet with an Oxford colleague. The paper would be presented before the Royal Medical Society shortly after Christmas, and Kate would be flying over to spend her break with him. The final article would be submitted for publication in the late winter.

After reading several chapters, she tossed the manuscript on the table with a happy sigh and picked up her chemistry textbook. She needed to study for a test coming up the next week. Kate missed her father. She had gotten used to meeting him for breakfast a few times a week, ducking into his office between her classes for a cup of coffee, or joining him for dinner at the Deer Park. Things had not always been so easy between them and she enjoyed being treated like his friend and colleague.

The pressure in the room changed as the front door opened, letting in a gust of fall air before shutting noisily. Voices echoed from the lobby.

I can get girls on my own, you know. Tell your girlfriend she doesn’t need to fix me up, a male voice grumbled irritably. Anyway, I know who Kristy is and she likes to dance. I won’t be doing that for a while.

Kate glanced over her shoulder. It was Clayton Beech, on crutches, with Jerry Myer and his girlfriend, Nancy Stockton. Kate ducked, hidden by the back of the couch. The instinct to flee had been ingrained in her by Clayton’s twin sister.

Kristy knows that. Nancy spoke in an even tone, undaunted by Clay’s bluster.

Or talking, for that matter–the music is too loud. Do you think she wants to sit at a table all night sipping warm beer? Not fun.

Kate nodded to herself in agreement. Last time Sharon had dragged her to the Thursday night Pub-on-the-Hill held in the dining hall, she had done just that. Sat at the table, sipped tepid keg beer, and watched everyone else’s drinks and coats while they had a blast on the dance floor. It had been very ‘not fun’ and she had not gone back.

Say something to her in French, Nancy suggested helpfully.

Kristy speaks French? His tone became hopeful.

No, but she thinks it sounds sexy. She giggled. "Like on the Addams Family. Morticia and Gomez."

There was a groan of male disgust.

Come on, Clay, Jerry cajoled. You know Kristy put Nancy up to this. The chick knows you are walking wounded. Who doesn’t? There was an article in the school paper after all.

I would be bored out of my gourd, Clay stated truthfully and then added the next part to get Nancy off the hook, and feeling guilty for keeping Kristy grounded.

There were more arguing and their voices got louder as they moved into the main room. Something clattered against wood and then a bad and loud rendition of chopsticks burst from the grand piano that stood by the fireplace.

Okay, okay. Jerry’s voice was exasperated, yelling over the loud music, Come on, Nanc. Let’s leave him alone.

God, I hate it when he gets all moody, she replied, equally irritated. I don’t get what his problem is with Kristy.

Kate heard footsteps echoing in the stairwell, and then felt another pressure change as the couple went out the door on the lower level. The terrible music morphed into Chopin’s Autumn Leaves. This time the music played well, the dark swirling cadences evoking images of dry leaves blowing across the lawn. The music changed suddenly to the long lilting tones of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Kate closed her eyes and listened, enjoying the impromptu recital. Who knew Clayton Beech was so talented? Gorgeous and talented, she thought clutching the chemistry book to her chest.

Half way into the sonata, Clay paused and then started on Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. He would have played that piece through to the final note if Kate had not sneezed, suddenly and loudly.

I take requests, Clay called to the empty room.

Kate peered over the back of her couch and wrinkling her nose, she shook her head. To her, the gesture meant ignore me, play what you like or better yet continue on your way. I will keep studying.

Not a music lover, huh? Clay laughed, and then thought her look might be a commentary on his playing, her wrinkled nose signifying that he was stinking up the joint. Or maybe you are. Am I interrupting your studying? Sorry about that. I was just trying to get out of a blind date.

Clay Beech picked up his crutches, and Kate sighed, turning back to her book—relieved he was leaving. Instead, he thumped over to her, squeezed past the couch into the small space, expertly moving his left crutch to the right side, keeping off his broken leg.

What are you reading? Balancing carefully, Clay reached for the blue covered manuscript. "The Brain: Recent Developments in Synaptic—whoa, heavy stuff." Dr. Evan Hastings. He silently read the author’s name, and then noted a scrawled message across the blue cover—’Kitty, Thought you might like to look this over, Dad’

Clay’s mind clicked back to his mother sitting at the breakfast table reading the morning paper several years back. It says here that Dr. Hastings has been given a prestigious award. They are having a dinner to honor him tomorrow night. Doesn’t his daughter go to school with you? Are you friendly with her?

Who, Kitty Hastings? What a horror show! Jeez, Mom. Lauren, his twin sister, had grimaced and set her half-empty glass of orange juice on the table in disgust then huffed out of the room before her mother could deliver another lecture on the importance of being kind. After his sister’s abrupt departure, his mother had peered over the paper at Clay, an eyebrow raised, waiting for an explanation.

She’s kind of a brain. He had shrugged.

Well, that explains Lauren’s dislike but you... you’re my smart one, 1450 on the SATs. Alice Beech had beamed at him with unabashed pride before returning to her newspaper.

Clay blinked away the memory and viewed his companion in a new light. I know you. You’re Kitty Hastings.

It’s Kate. I’m Kate now. Double answering, her voice shaking, as she was flustered that Clay Beech remembered her. That was not good, really not good. Back in high school, she had had no sense of style. No mother to guide her in the right direction and a father who thought oversized hand-me-downs were fine, resulting in ruthless teasing. Frump-a-dump or horror show is what his sister had called her. Kate winced at the memory.

What’s wrong with being called Kitty? Makes people wonder if you purr, he teased, grinning to reveal a stunningly perfect smile and bright blue eyes lit with humor.

Kate flushed and shook her short dark curls. Exactly. Who is—I mean, no one’s going to take a doctor named Kitty seriously. I am not the kitten type. Kate’s better for me.

Lowering himself into the chair next to her, he propped his injured leg on the coffee table. The cast made a soft thud on the solid wood. Mind if I join you? We can talk about old times.

"Mon Français est terrible. Je serais une pauvre personne de conversation agréable." Surprised that she got the whole sentence out and more or less correct, Kate remembered his comment about the blind date he wanted to get out of, and the poor conversation he would get. Maybe by assuring him of her poor language skills, he would take the hint and leave her alone.

Too bad, it would be nice to have someone to talk to in French.

Didn’t I just... I mean... I overheard your friends fixing you up with a girl who wanted just that. Kate recalled the earlier argument and Nancy’s suggestion that he pull a Gomez with Kristy playing Morticia.

"I meant to speak with someone who understood what I was saying and who could respond. That gorgeous smile curled his lips again with blue eyes sparkling at her. Hey! Sign my cast."

Unsnapping his navy and white letter jacket embellished with the plush-gold D outlined in blue for Delaware, he reached inside, pulling out two thin paperback books, a small spiral bound notebook, and then dug into his outer pockets eventually pulling out a highlighter and a permanent marker. Balancing his books on the arm of his chair, he handed her the marker.

One leg of his jeans had been cut off at mid-thigh to accommodate the plaster cast starting at his toes and continuing to the frayed denim edge.

Did tha—does it hurt? Kate asked looking for a blank spot on the large expanse of plaster. There wasn’t one. What a stupid question, idiot. Of course, it hurt. It was broken, she thought flushing again.

An article in The Review a few weeks back had described in detail how the senior Delaware wide receiver had been tackled during the Villanova game, a brutal attack that had sent his body one way and his knee the other, ending his final season in the second game. The break had required surgery and a permanent steel pin. Kate had admired his good humor when the reporter had asked about his disappointment in not being able to finish the season. Clay had cheerfully replied that the upside was in having more time to study. Next to the article had been a full length, glorious picture of Clay, leaning on his crutches, looking directly into the camera and smiling. Kate’s quad mate, Sharon, had taken the shot, and had gone on and on about how nice he had been and how gorgeous he was in person.

Kate was unaware that the photograph had turned him into a campus-wide heartthrob. Clay had gotten offers more direct than Kristy’s offer, and he had turned them all down, still stinging from his breakup with Holiday Morris. It did an ego some harm when the girl he had loved for a year left him for an older, and very unattractive, grad student. Though Clay would never admit it, his mind had not been on the football game when he was bulldozed. It had been on Holiday.

No, it doesn’t hurt much, but it itches and my toes get cold. Hope we don’t get an early snow. The cast left his toes exposed and he wiggled them. The big, golden-haired man patted a spot, autographed previously in ballpoint, where the writing had nearly worn off. Here’s a spot.

No Sss-ocks? Kate asked looking at this toes, looking anywhere but directly at him, before she started writing on the cast with the marker.

Don’t fit, and even if they did, I can’t reach to put them on. Clay shrugged watching her write ‘Tough break, Kate’ in clear even script. He had expected something cute or just a simple ‘good luck’ but this was different. Funny, hm. Guess now I should let you study.

Kate sat back and lifted her book, flipping to the page she had been reading. She assumed he had meant he would get up and then he would go about his business—whatever that was—and leave her alone. Instead, he opened both paperbacks, and started reading a page in one, and then a page in the other.

It was odd. Occasionally, he would highlight both.

What are you doing? She forgot to stumble over her words, genuinely curious at the strange behavior. Maybe he had hit his head really hard in the game, and this was a sign of residual brain damage. She would not want to see him injured, but the idea interested the future neurologist in her.

"Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. I am comparing the original Russian to the French translation. I have to write a paper about why the translator may have chosen to use specific phrases, idioms, rather than a direct translation. I need at least ten examples. Languages do not exactly have a one to one relationship, you know, he explained as he continued his work. This exercise is to determine if I understand the nuances of the prose. You know, pick up on colloquialisms in both languages. That kind of thing."

Clay had continued to hang around because he wanted to get a good look at Kitty—or Kate as she preferred—when she wasn’t flushed, or ducking her head in embarrassment at her awkwardness. Only, each time he glanced up from one of his books, Kate would catch him watching her, and would quickly return to her own studies, scrunching further down behind the large chemistry book. After about fifteen minutes, he noticed her shoulders relax as she got used to him, and allowed herself to become absorbed in her own work.

This girl did not look like the Kitty Hastings Clay remembered from Newark High. That Kitty Hastings had long frizzy hair, stiff from repeated attempts to straighten it, and thick, heavy-rimmed glasses, braces, and she had worn clothes too large for her frame and too young in style for high school. Plaid skirts, knee high socks, and loafers, when everyone else was in hip hugger jeans, fitted tops and clogs. He figured he had gone to school with her since elementary school but guessed that they had not spoken since, maybe, fourth grade when he imagined he had chased her screaming around the playground.

Clay studied the profile of the girl bent over the book. He would have spoken to this Kitty-Kate, not that she was exceptionally pretty; not a knockout like his sister but she piqued his curiosity. She had been a brain in high school, so she had smart going for her. In his experience—based on watching Lauren and her friends—a pretty face would get you noticed, but Clay preferred it to be followed up with brains or personality. Lauren’s friends had been lucky to have good looks because there was not much follow-up.

It may have been the time of day, her makeup could have worn off, but Clay guessed that Kate did not practice the feminine arts. Long lashes fringed dark brown eyes—her awful glasses replaced with contacts. A cloud of soft brunette curls framed smooth olive skin. Her features were neither delicate nor bold, just well-proportioned to each other except for her lips which were rosy and plump. Kate did not need cosmetics, he concluded.

Studying her, he guessed she would be just below average in height. This meant she would look short next to him, coming to his shoulder maybe—if she stood on tiptoe. His eyes moved surreptitiously over her body, faded Levis fit snuggly over slender hips, straight-leg jeans ending with dark tan Converse high-tops that someone had painted to look like leopard skin. A boxy brown sweater, fashionably oversized and cropped to hit just at the waist of her jeans, did not exactly obscure breasts that were fuller than he would have imagined on such a slender frame. All-in-all Kate had certainly improved in the three years since high school. Satisfied with his appraisal, smiling to himself, Clay turned back to his novels.

They studied in silence, not noticing the changing light outside until Kate’s stomach complained loudly. Looking up, Clay asked, Hungry? Want to head up to the dining hall? I usually wait to eat with the team.

The dining hall on their side of campus stayed open a half hour longer than the other dining halls, specifically to feed the football players.

They closed five minutes ago, Kate said after checking her watch.

Damn.... Clay thought of their options for a moment. Do you want to go up to the Deer Park and get something?

Clay Beech was asking her to eat dinner with him. Damn, is right, Kate thought. Shit-damn. She felt her stomach flip and was no longer hungry.

No, I can call Mobile Deli. Kate shook her head and began stacking her books, getting ready to leave the commons.

The Mobile Deli was take-out on wheels; the idea was to cook the food in the back of a panel truck as they drove it to the delivery point. Unfortunately, they could only go one direction at a time and their customers called from all sides of campus.

Do you really want to wait an hour or two for the food? That’s if the truck doesn’t break down. Clay found himself in the unusual and perplexing position of having to persuade the girl to go with him.

She shrugged, not convinced so he continued, And have you ever thought about the sanitation grade that truck has? Have you smelled it up close? Nothing appetizing about diesel and old grease. Come on, I hate to eat alone and you can catch me up on what you’ve heard about the old Newark gang. Clay stood up and got the crutches situated on either side before maneuvering out of the narrow alcove. Unless you have plans to go to Pub-On-the-Hill.

I don’t have any plans. Boy, did she sound pathetic! Kate winced at her mistake and added, The Deer Park sounds okay.

Just let me put my books in my room. What dorm are you in? he asked.

Building K, second floor. K, she answered, flushing when she realized she had said it twice.

Looks like we’re neighbors, I just moved to the first floor. Traded my single in M with Jerry after the accident so I could be on the ground level. He gets my single; I get his crappy roommate. The guy is a pig, he told her as they stepped into the small elevator. Do you know Craig Horner?

Kate shook her head. She did not know any of the guys living on the first floor though she had watched them play Frisbee on the lawn from her balcony.

She followed Clay down the stairs—waiting as he carefully took each step one at a time—then across the lawn, and finally leaving him at his door to dash up to her room. Her keys shook in her hand as she fumbled with the lock on the outer door. This was one of the moments when the heroine in a book asked someone to pinch her, but who would want to be pinched out of this dream? This was a once in a lifetime event, Clay Beech asking her, ugly Kitty Hastings, to dinner.

Except, she chided herself, it was not a date, not really. They were just two people who had missed dinner, and did not plan to party on the hill. That was all.

Kate tossed her books on her desk, slipped into the bathroom for a quick pit stop. Both showers were going full blast steaming up the room. Her quad mate Sharon’s robe hung on the hook outside one of them. Kate was relieved not to have to talk to anyone before ducking into a stall, afraid that she would not be able to put together a coherent sentence.

Washing her hands, she seriously scrutinized her reflection. The steam was not helping her hair, but brushing it now would just make it bigger and frizzier. Maybe she should apply some makeup. The bits she used only on rare occasions were scattered somewhere in her top dresser drawer. Worried she was taking too much time, she decided to go with a quick swipe of Chapstick. She grabbed her coat, shoved the lip balm, keys, and wallet into the coat’s deep pockets, and dashed out her front door.

Kate was worried that she would not find Clayton Beech waiting at the bottom of the stairs; it was possible she had been dreaming or he might have changed his mind. However, he was waiting, smiling happily when he saw her. I just heard the bus pull out at the top of the hill. If we hurry, we can catch it as it goes by and get the driver to drop us off at Main Street, right on the doorstep.

Th-that’s not an official stop. Neither was having the bus stop on the road in front of the dorm.

It’s part of the deal with having this cast. They will pick me up on the street anywhere and drop me wherever I want as long as it’s on their route.

The bus stopped for Clay. The driver appeared to recognize him and they took the front seats, Kate behind the driver, Clay across the aisle from her. The diesel engine was loud, and she could barely hear what the bus driver, a young black man, asked about Clay’s broken leg. Even if she could have heard him, it was clear she would not have understood him. The questions had not been in English, and Clay had responded in the driver’s tongue.

Kate was glad to have a moment where she wasn’t stumbling over her words, glad for time to take stock of her situation. It was a once-in-a-blue-moon event, going out with Clayton Beech no matter the circumstances; she decided she should try to enjoy it.

Focusing on the conversation between the driver and Clay, Kate thought the language they spoke sounded like French, but she didn’t pick out very many words from her required two years in high school, and her two semesters in college. She could read a little French, but had never actually had the opportunity to converse outside a classroom.

As he had promised, they had been dropped at the top of Main Street, just outside the bar. Clay led the way past the dusty display case containing a stuffed raven. There were legends about this place. Lafayette had stayed there during the Revolutionary War when it had been a hotel. An inebriated Edgar Alan Poe, tossed out into the street, had cursed the place; hence, the molting old raven.

Kate and Clay were lucky to get a booth close to the student bar; it was nicer up front than in the large back dining room tightly packed with cracked Formica tables. A couple times a week, bands were jammed into the very back, but not on Thursdays.

From where she stood, Kate could see the room to her left was packed. The townie bar was all bar; no tables but enough stools to require the full time efforts of two bartenders, usually Joanie and someone else. In the townie bar, it was guaranteed you would run into your professors, high school teachers, parents, and other locals mingling with college students. Cigarette smoke perpetually hung in a noxious cloud overhead.

The front room, though not as smoky, was permeated by the rank odor of spilled beer fermenting in the wooden plank floors.

Kate loved the dive atmosphere, the dubious history, strong drinks, and delicious food prepared by a cook who looked like a hard-core biker, but was rumored to be a French-trained chef. The chalkboard on the wall proclaimed the night’s specials. Chili, duck à l’orange, and a club sandwich with fries.

Paul looked up from where he was mixing drinks at the student bar and nodded a greeting to Kate. His long brown hair was pulled into a ponytail and a big mustache hid any expression. Paul knew her father. Dr. Hastings frequently ate dinner sitting on a stool at the student bar, and Kate had started joining him once a week after she had moved to campus. Her dad had bought her first legal drink on her twentieth birthday at that bar, and Paul had mixed it.

Clay hung his crutches on the hook under his coat and slid into the booth where he could prop his leg up on the wooden bench. Kate shrugged out of her jacket and sat with her back to the wall, facing Clay. Since there wasn’t a band playing to drown them out, it meant Kate would have to talk to Clay.

You play that—the piano well. I—I’d never heard that you were a musician, Kate stammered the opening she had rehearsed in her head on the bus and then flushed. So much for relaxing and enjoying.

My mom taught piano, but I’m not a musician. I learned to make the piano sound the way it should. I hear a song, get the basic chords down, and I can play it, but a real musician can make the instruments create the music he hears in his head. I don’t hear anything new. Clay shook his head as if he regretted it. I just have a knack for remembering and imitating sound and rhythms. My mom thinks that’s why I’m so good with languages.

Is—is that your major? Or are you doing comparative translations for ah, ummm, a humanities requirement? Kate asked, forgetting the words she needed.

Languages and Poly-Sci double major. I thought the two might go together, career-wise. He shrugged.

What, she started to get tongue tied again, and took a deep breath—Get a grip, Kate. What do you speak?

I’m literate in three languages: French, Russian, and Spanish. Oh, four if you count English, but I bet Mrs. Hines would disagree. Smiling as he named a notoriously difficult high school teacher. I speak a smattering of German, and I have picked up a bit of Italian from a student in one of my classes; mainly the dirty words and pick-up lines. That’s a good way to start. He ended the statement with a chuckle.

Kate laughed at his jokes, and found she was relaxing, just a teeny-weeny bit, as she realized he was trying to charm her. To keep him talking, she asked another question. What language was the bus driver speaking?

A form of French spoken in North Africa. Once you hear it, you start to figure out the similarities, and he understood my classic French pretty well.

Kate, Paul interrupted, placing the menus on the table. Rum and Coke? he asked. She nodded, and he turned to Clay. What can I get for you?

Clay looked at the girl across from him, intrigued that Paul knew her by name, and knew her drink order. The same.

What’s Evan up to these days? He hasn’t been here in a while, Paul asked as he lingered wiping up a nonexistent spill on the resin-coated wood between them.

Dad’s in London working on a paper with a colleague. He won’t be back until late winter, Kate answered the bartender. Nodding, he turned back to the bar to fill their drink order.

Clay watched the bartender leave then taking a deep breath turned back to his companion. It was his turn to try to get her talking. You’re majoring in biology? You mentioned becoming a doctor back in the commons.

Bio-chem, my major is bio-chem. There she went, double speaking again.

Not my best subjects. I have to get my science credits out of the way in the spring. I’ve been saving the worst for last.

Kate stifled another giggle. She was laughing too much at everything he said. He was charming but not hilarious. Get a grip, she chided herself. Me, too. I have French during winterim, and then in the spring, I have one history and two lit classes lined up, with my last semester of French. This semester is it for core classes.

There was a moment of silence as the two picked up the menus to take up the conversational slack.

Paul returned with the drinks, setting them down as he asked for their orders.

I’ll have a cheeseburger, medium with fries. Hold the onion. Kate set the menu down on the end of the table.

Large chili and a side of fries. Clay tossed his menu on top of hers.

While waiting for their food, Clay attempted to bring up old times. I saw Russ Banks on campus last week. Do you remember him? He was a year ahead of us. Quarterback.

Not really. Do you know Tracy Donahue? She is in my history class this semester, Kate asked.

She had red hair, right?

"No, light brown. She was in the chorus and played the lead in The Glass Menagerie."

Oh, yeah, she was good, but I didn’t really know her. Clay shook his golden head.

They went back and forth a few more times until they figured out that, although they recognized the names, they had not actually been friendly with any of the same people. Sometime between the ‘remember who’ exercise, and the bottom of her first rum and Coke, Kate started feeling like herself.

Do you remember Suzie Simmons? She had the biggest crush on you. She made an effort to walk down your hall every morning just to say hi. I think I remember you having a long line of greeters, Kate exclaimed remembering her friend’s serious problem.

Suzie? She took piano from my mother. Clay grimaced remembering the pale skinny girl. She played terribly. Lied about practicing and...

She hated piano—she had two left hands. Her mother made her do it and Suzie went along just to be near the golden football god. It was a thrill for her to be in your living room. Kate slipped, using the name she and Gina had employed derisively to tease Suzie. She cringed hoping he would let it pass.

Golden football god? Clay raised his eyebrows. He was not going to give her a break.

A joke. Gina and I used to give Suzie a hard time about her crush on you. Kate flushed in embarrassment at having let that little gem slip out.

You weren’t in my line of greeters? He waggled his eyebrows at the tease.

Oh, no. I walked with her, but you were, too... I kept an eye out for Denny Buchman.

Denny? You have got to be kidding. Clay, who had been leaning toward her, sat back, straightening in his seat.

A girl can dream. Kate shook her curls with an exaggerated sigh.

He was the most obnoxious guy in our class. His comment tinged with disbelief that she would actually have been interested in Denny Buchman instead of him.

I thought he was kind of cute and funny... and smart. He made a 1400 on the SATs. Kate informed Clay of Denny Buchman’s qualifications for her attention.

I made a 1450. What did you make? Oh, yeah, never mind you, Gina Giametti and Doug Kramer were the 1600 club members. Clay leaned forward again trying not to smile, pretending to be seriously annoyed. So I was smarter and better looking yet you picked Denny Buchman? I think I should be offended. Actually, damn it, I am offended.

I heard rumors that you were more than just a pretty face, but I lived in the real world. Kate sighed.

Lived in the real world? What does that mean? Where was I, on Mars or something? Clay laughed.

Kate opened her mouth, about to explain to him that she doubted he would have given her the time of day. She would have at best been wasting her time, at worst setting herself up for Lauren Beech’s blistering ridicule, but she decided to be nicer. It’s like going to the Smithsonian and looking at the Hope Diamond. It is amazing, flawless, big and gorgeous, but there is not a chance that I am ever going to own it. Nice to look at, but it would be a waste of time to actually want it.

Clay looked at her thoughtfully. He had been told often enough that he was exceptionally handsome—often enough to believe it—but no one had ever said those exact words to him, though he suspected that was how some people saw him—not real, inaccessible, somehow beyond human. Well, now I feel like the girl with the big tits.

Startled by his comment, it took Kate a minute to get what he meant. At first, she thought he had taken real offense to her rum induced confession, but then she saw the joke. I get it–guys never look beyond her bust line to find that heart of gold.

Or one black as coal. It’s all superficial, you know—how someone looks. Blue eyes caught and held her brown ones.

Kate Hastings narrowed her eyes. He was not going to get away with making her out to be the shallow one with the problem.

If that were true, then why weren’t you my friend at Newark? You said you knew I made a 1600 on the SATs, you recognized me in the commons earlier, so apparently you knew something about me beyond my frizzy hair and thick glasses. I never noticed you in my line of greeters, not that I ever had one.

Clay took a fresh look at the young woman sitting across from him with the indignant expression, feeling a desire to really get to know her. Once she had overcome her nervousness—or doused it with rum—talking with her was interesting. She had not tried to flirt with him, which was different.

I never even considered it, he answered truthfully, which makes me an idiot.

* * * * *

Clay’s crutches slowed their progress back to the dorms. A brisk ten-minute walk stretched into thirty, only getting them to the edge of the complex. No buses were running to give them a convenient lift. A couple rounds of drinks had not helped either. Kate did not mind the slow pace. They kept talking, continuing the candid conversation that they had started before dinner and throughout the meal.

Kate had talked about her father, calling him loving but distant. She told him she did not remember her mother since an automobile accident had killed her when Kate was sixteen months old. But she had been angry with her for dying because it was hard not having a mother when everyone else did.

She explained how Mrs. Lautenberg, her father’s secretary, had become her surrogate mother in some ways. Growing up, the Lautenbergs had kept her every Friday night, a night that she later figured out was her father’s date night, and she stayed with them when her father traveled. Mrs. Lautenberg had taken her shopping with her two daughters, Penny and Missy. She was the one who took care of Kate when she was sick, and gave her Penny’s old clothes after Kate’s father had given her an unreasonable clothing allowance. Not that he was cheap. The good professor abhorred conformity, and just did not understand his daughter’s need to follow popular trends.

When they ran into Dick Lautenberg’s Ford dealership friends—who would always say what pretty girls Dick had—Doris would smile in silent agreement, but Dick always made a joke about it—they sure are, but this one is on loan from Professor Hastings. As she had gotten older, that little joke had bothered Kate. It made her wonder if Dick Lautenberg resented her being around so much, although he had always been kind to her.

Clay had opened up about his feelings toward his father. He really admired the man for his success and tenacity. His father had come up in a tough area of Wilmington, used the Navy and GI bill to earn a business degree from Delaware, but Clay could not help but despise his father’s rough edges that often slipped into crudity.

Clay told her about his mother, whom he loved very much. She had been a proper southern belle from Virginia, and had met his father while he was in the Navy. Alice always said that Bill Beech had swept her off her feet. They married quickly; Bill kept two part time jobs while he was in school, and then worked his way up to a senior management position at the local Chrysler plant. Despite his personal success, the man resented Alice’s refined Southern manners. When Bill had a few too many scotches under his belt he would accuse her of putting on airs, saying she pretended to be better than everyone else was—unfounded criticism that often pushed his wife to tears, and embarrassed his son.

Bill Beech might have been obnoxious toward his wife but not toward Clay’s sisters, his twin, Lauren and the younger ones, Beth and Pam. The senior Beech doted on his girls. Lauren had taken after him, becoming flippant and rude yet remaining popular due to her beauty.

Clay admitted that while he loved football, breaking his leg had been a relief. All his life Clay had to prove his manliness in order to play the piano. His father called him a pretty-boy and the piano girly-stuff, although Clay’s sisters had shown no inclination toward music. For his mother to get her husband’s permission to order the foreign language recordings Clay had begged for, the boy had to prove he was a real man.

Bill Beech believed football was a real man’s game. Therefore, Clay had played.

Kate had gasped and exclaimed in words what Clay’s story hinted at, but he had never said. Your father thought you were gay?

Clay had nodded slowly not looking at her. He found the idea humiliating and wondered why he had told her so much.

Half way down the Pencader steps—fifty-two of them in four sets of thirteen leading from South College Avenue down the hill to the drive encompassing the dorms—Clay misplaced his crutch, not paying close enough attention to the narrow bits of pavement he was navigating, and lost his balance. Kate grabbed him and pushed him back against the iron hand rail as the lost crutch clattered to the landing below.

Hell, all I need to do is break my other leg, Clay gasped, holding onto Kate as he regained his balance.

I’ve got you. She tightened her grasp, and he looked down at the concern in her dark eyes. Without thinking, he steadied himself on his one remaining crutch then wrapped his free arm around her, pulled her close and kissed her. The light kiss would have ended there except for the zing he had felt from his lips to his cold toes. A buzz of electricity he had not expected coursed through him. Clay pulled her in tighter, molding her to his body, feeling her hands move up from his waist to tangle in his hair, her fingers tugging him to her eagerly responding lips.

The kiss ended as quickly as it had started, both of them a little breathless and embarrassed by the suddenness of it. Kate retrieved his crutch, and they continued on to building K in silence.

I would ask you in but... the roommate from hell— Clay shrugged and shook