“What made you go into medicine?” She had to be so dedicated, he had always been impressed by, but never attracted to, that life. And he had known since he was a child that he didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps.
“My father is a doctor,” she explained. “He's in obstetrics and gynecology, which didn't appeal to me. But pediatrics did. And my brother is a psychiatrist. My mother wanted to be a nurse during the war, but she only made it as far as the Red Cross volunteers. I guess we all have the medical bug. Congenital,” she pronounced and they both laughed. They had all gone to Harvard as well, which she didn't mention to him. She seldom did. She had gone to Radcliffe, and then Stanford Med School, and had graduated second in her class, a fact that mattered very little now. She was busy doing what she did, healing hot ears, and giving shots and setting bones, and curing coughs, and being there for the children she loved and took care of.
“My father is a doctor.” Bernie looked pleased that they had something in common. “Ear, nose, and throat. Somehow it never seemed very exciting to me. Actually, I wanted to teach literature in a prep school in New England.” It sounded silly now. The era of his passion for Russian literature seemed a thousand years ago and he laughed thinking of it. “I often suspect that Wolffs has saved me from a fate worse than death. I wanted to work for a small school in a sleepy town, as I thought of it, and thank God none of them wanted me, or I might have become an alcoholic by now.” They both laughed at the thought. “Or hanged myself. It's a hell of a lot better selling shoes and fur coats and French bread than living in a place like that.”
She laughed at the description he offered of Wolffs. “Is that how you see yourself?”
“More or less.” Their eyes met and they felt a sudden inexplicable bond.
They were chatting easily about the store when her buzzer went off after that. She excused herself and went to the phone and came back to report that she had to meet someone at the hospital.
“Nothing terrible, I hope.” Bernie looked worried, and she smiled. She was used to this. In fact, it was obvious that she loved it.
“Just a bump on the head, but I want to take a look at him, just in case.” She was cautious, reasonable, and as good a doctor as he had suspected. “It was nice to see you again, Bernard.” She held out a hand, and it was cool and firm in his own, and for the first time he noticed the perfume she wore as she stepped closer to him. It was sexy and feminine in the same way she was, yet not overpowering.
“Come and see me at the store next time you come in. I'll sell you some French bread myself to prove that I know where it is.”
She laughed. “I still think you ought to open the store of your dreams here in Napa.”
“I'd love that.” But it was only a dream. And his time in California was almost over. Their eyes met then, and she left him regretfully, thanked their host, and was gone. He heard the Austin Healy roaring away, and saw her hair flying out behind a moment later. He left the party and went home, a short time afterwards, thinking of Megan, wondering if he'd see her again, and surprised by how much he liked her and how pretty she had looked in the gypsy blouse with the bare shoulders.
Chapter 36
A month later, on a rainy Saturday, Bernie was in Saint Helena doing some errands for Nanny, when he walked out of the hardware store and bumped into Megan again. She was wearing a long yellow slicker and red rubber boots, with a bright red scarf over her dark hair. And she looked startled as they collided, their arms full of packages, and she gave him a friendly smile. She had thought of him a number of times since they'd last met and she was obviously happy to see him.
“Well, hello again. How've you been?” Her eyes lit up like blue sapphires and he looked at her with pleasure as they stood there.
“Busy …fine …the usual …how are you?”
“Working too hard.” But she looked happy. “How're your kids?” It was a question she asked everyone, but she actually gave a damn and it showed.
“They're fine.” He smiled at her, feeling like a kid again himself and enjoying the feeling.
They were standing in the pouring rain, and he was wearing an old tweed hat and an English raincoat that had seen better days over his jeans and he suddenly squinted at her in the rain. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee or are you dashing off somewhere?” He remembered the beeper, and the bumped head she had run off to check on Labor Day when she left the party.
“Actually I'm through for the day, and I'd love it.” She pointed to a coffee shop just down the street and he hurried after her, wondering why he had invited her. He always liked her when they met, and then was annoyed at himself because he was attracted to her, and that didn't seem right to him. He had no business being attracted to her. There was the usual awkwardness as they found a table and sat down. She ordered a hot chocolate, and he a cappuccino and then he sat back and looked at her. It was extraordinary, as unadorned as she was, she was beautiful. She was one of those women who look plain at first, and then slowly one realizes that there's a great deal more to them, their features are beautiful, their eyes remarkable, their skin exceptional, and all put together it makes someone very special. But it is not all hung with bright lights that catch one's eye at first. “What are you looking at?” She saw him staring at her and was sure she looked terrible, but he smiled and cocked his head to one side, smiling at her.
“I was thinking how pretty you look in your slicker and boots and red scarf on your black hair.” He looked genuinely enraptured and she blushed furiously at the compliment and laughed at him.
“You must be blind, or drunk. I was probably the tallest girl in my class from kindergarten on. My brother said I had legs like lampposts and teeth like piano keys.” And hair like silk …and eyes like pale sapphires and …Bernie forced the thoughts from his mind and forced himself to say something ordinary to her.
“I think brothers always say things like that, don't they? I'm not sure, having been an only child, but it seems to me that their appointed role in life is to torment their sisters as best they can.”
She laughed at the memories he evoked. “Mine was good at it. Actually, I'm crazy about him. He's got six kids.” She smiled thoughtfully. And Bernie laughed. Another Catholic. His mother would be thrilled at the news. And suddenly the thought amused him. This was definitely not Mrs. Rosenthal's daughter, the model from Ohrbach's. But she was a doctor. His mother would have liked that, and so would his father. If that mattered. And then he reminded himself that this was only hot chocolate and coffee on a rainy afternoon in Napa.
“Is your brother Catholic?” Irish Catholics would explain her black hair, but she shook her head and laughed at the question.
“No. He's Episcopalian. He just loves kids. His wife says she wants twelve.” And Megan looked as though she envied them, and so did Bernie.
“I've always thought big families were wonderful,” he said as their hot drinks arrived. Hers covered with whipped cream and his coffee with steamed milk and nutmeg. He took a sip and glanced up at her, wondering who she was, where she had been, and if she had children of her own. He realized how little he knew of her. “You're not married, are you, Megan?” He didn't think she was anyway, but realized he didn't even know that for certain.
“Not much room for it, I'm afraid, with late night calls and eighteen-hour days.” Her work was what she loved best of all and it didn't really explain her single state. And suddenly she decided to be honest with him. Like Liz long before, she saw a man in him that she could be open and honest with, and talk straight to.