AFTERGLOW (4 page)

"Which hardcover house are you with?" David asked.

"I'm not. I'm original paperback."

"Oh. Mass market. Well, there are plenty of fine novels in paperback."

"Of course, and the distribution is so much greater. One would rather have two hundred thousand readers instead of just five thousand."

Two hundred thousand! Was that just a number she'd used for illustration? David blinked. Had she bought that condo in Sausalito with her own money, then, and not Daddy's? Why the hell hadn't Elliot told him she was a writer? He shot Elliot a look, which was blandly ignored.

"Perhaps I've read your work," he said. "What name do you use?"

"My own. Chelsea Lattimer."

"Sorry, but I'll keep an eye out. What do you write? Fiction? Nonfiction? Biographies?"

Chelsea looked him straight in the eye. "Fiction. I write long historical novels. The ones filled with adventure, intrigue, lots of romance—"

"And delicious sex," George added, rolling her eyes.

David blurted out before he could stop himself, his voice filled with incredulous distaste, "You write
romance
novels?"

"Yes, I do," Chelsea said. "May I have some more wine, George?" Time out, she thought. Oh, Lord, what should she do now?

"Certainly, Chels."

Chelsea forced herself to drink slowly from her newly filled glass.

David fidgeted with his whiskey for a moment. "Do you plan to switch to more
…
literary work in the future?"

"Exactly what do you mean, David?" Chelsea asked, not moving a muscle.

"Well, really, Chelsea, that stuff is drivel. It's pap for idiots and frustrated women—"

"I'm not a frustrated idiot, David," George said, winking at Chelsea.

"What do you read, David?" Chelsea asked. "Or perhaps I should say, do you read?"

Elliot seated himself on the arm of his wife's chair. He was grinning; he couldn't help it. He felt rather sorry for David, who was quickly digging a hole so deep he'd have to use a bullhorn to call someone to come to rescue him.

"Well, of course I read. Good literature, the classics, biographies and some bestsellers."

"Which bestsellers?"

"Well, you know, this and that. Whatever is on the
New York Times
Best Seller list, I suppose."

"Ah, you're led by what other people think," Chelsea said. "Don't you have any favorite authors? People you've picked yourself?"

He knew he was fitting himself for his own coffin, but her damned calm, patronizing attitude was too much. "Yes, I like to read Westerns, as a matter of fact. Westerns, of course, aren't exactly great literature, but they have value, good plots, historical insights—"

"My novels also have good plots, historical insights and accuracy."

"But it's tripe! Good grief, men and women never behaved the way those novels have them behave!"

"Have you ever read one?"

"Certainly not," he snapped.

"Why not? As a doctor, it would seem to me to be the epitome of idiocy to draw a conclusion based on not one shred of evidence, or, if you will, make a diagnosis without examining the patient."

"It's not the same thing," he said. He shot Elliot a look of sheer desperation, but Elliot only smiled at him blandly.

"I don't particularly care for Westerns, but at least I've given them a try," Chelsea went on. "At least half a dozen, I'd say. Why isn't it the same thing?"

"Men are better … no—" David plowed his fingers through his hair. "It's just that men's literature is more accurate, more entertaining—"

"Are you saying that women's literature has less entertainment value, less accuracy, than men's literature?"

"It's not true to life."

"You lived in the 1860s? Or shot up a town marshal?"

"Of course not," David said. "Look, Chelsea, can we drop this? I'm sorry if I've insulted the type of novel you write. All right?"

"Certainly," Chelsea said, giving him an "I just tromped you into the ground smile." She wanted to laugh when he practically ground his teeth. "I'll just bet you hated
Romeo and Juliet
and only go to the movies to see people get shot full of holes."

David, unwisely, didn't ignore that aside. "I loved the play and see all kinds of movies," he said, his voice very cool.

"Well, people need romance, all people. Even you, Dr. Winter, must have had those marvelous, romantic feelings with a woman you loved or were infatuated with. Unfortunately, for many people those intense feelings don't last. That's why they read books and go to movies. It fills a need, it presents an ideal, brings back their own memories. Life is sometimes too bereft of—"

"Bull," David said.

"I hope both of you have sharpened your appetites," Elliot said, rising. "Dinner's ready, if I don't mistake my nose. Come on, George, let me heave you out of that chair and into the dining room."

Over spaghetti that tasted like heaven come to earth, David asked George when she would be returning to modeling and TV.

"In November. I'll only be traveling one week a month, so my husband here can't get into too much trouble in my absence."

"You find modeling acceptable?" Chelsea couldn't resist asking David as she crunched into a delicious slice of garlic bread.

"For a woman," he said, grinning at her. "I meant to tell you," he continued to Chelsea, "you look gorgeous tonight. Silk becomes you."

"It's sixty percent polyester," Chelsea said.

"I like a woman who's cheap to keep."

Chelsea laughed. Perhaps he wasn't such a bigoted, intolerant stuffed shirt after all. Perhaps he had a modicum of wit.

Elliot asked George a question, and when she didn't answer, all eyes at the table turned toward her.

"Elliot," George said with great calm, "I think the kiddo is going to come soon."

Elliot turned perfectly white. "But it's three weeks too soon! How do you know, George?" He was out of his chair as he spoke.

"Contractions," George said. "At least we got through dinner," she added, giving her husband a tense smile.

"You love spaghetti," Elliot said wildly. "I was wondering why you were eating like a bird. Oh, God!"

"Who's your doctor, George?" David asked calmly.

"Maggie Smith, at the university."

"What's her number?"

George looked at him helplessly. "It's evening. I don't know. Oh, wait, it's in my address book. I forgot that Maggie insisted—"

"Where's the address book, George?"

She told him. David turned to Elliot. "Why don't you bundle George up and take her to the hospital? I'll call Dr. Smith and meet you there."

Twenty minutes later David pulled his Lancia into the parking garage at the hospital.

"The baby is three weeks early," Chelsea said.

"Probably just as well," David said as he helped her from the car. "She was getting awfully big, and her pelvis doesn't look all that accommodating."

"You never lost your cool. I couldn't think of a thing to say or do. I'm a disaster in an emergency."

"I have two children of my own, a great deal of training and George isn't my wife," David said.

Chelsea shot him a look, but said nothing. He had said that he'd been married. Two children? Were they in Boston with their mother? What had happened to their marriage? Whatever, thank God for his cool, matter-of-fact conduct.

When they reached the waiting room on the fifth floor, a nurse told them that Dr. Smith was with Elliot and George, and that Mrs. Mallory was doing nicely.

"Want a cup of coffee?" David asked.

"How can you be so calm about all this? Oh, yes, your training. I'm sorry. Yes, thank you."

"It's a natural process, Chelsea," he said patiently. "George is young and very healthy, and she doesn't drink white wine," he added.

He left her to get coffee.

"And I don't drink whiskey," she muttered to his retreating back.

Elliot came into the waiting room ten minutes later, looking less distracted. "All's well," he said. "Look, you guys don't have to hang around. Maggie thinks it's going to take a while."

"Both my children were born at the crack of dawn," David said.

"Does George hurt?" Chelsea asked, ignoring David's words.

"She's handling everything just fine. We did Lamaze."

"I think I'll stay around," Chelsea said.

"Me, too," David added.

"It's up to you," Elliot said, running his fingers through his thick dark hair. "I'll come out with progress reports when I can."

"I think," David said slowly, "that the birth process is just as hard on men as it is on women."

Chelsea could only stare at him. "You're kidding," she said finally.

"What I meant was that the waiting is wretched."

"That's true," Chelsea conceded. "If it were my choice, though, I'd rather do the waiting than the yelling."

David winced a bit at that.

"Did you do Lamaze with your wife?"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly terse and chilly. "Margaret didn't want to." He added, a touch of bitterness in his voice, "I didn't get to see my children born."

"I'm sorry," Chelsea said for want of anything better. Deep waters, she thought, and murky. "How old are your kids?"

"Mark is eight, and Taylor is six."

"Two boys, huh?"

"No, Taylor's my daughter. Taylor is an old family name."

"You must miss them very much."

"Yes, yes, I do," David said. He hadn't seen them in six months, since he'd gone back to Boston to visit. And he hadn't stayed all that long. Margaret drove him bananas. He tried a smile. "I wish we had a deck of cards."

"What's your game?" Chelsea asked, a definite fleecing light in her blue eyes.

His smile widened. "Poker. Five-card stud."

"If you like," Chelsea said in an offhand manner, "you can come to our monthly poker game. This month—next week, in fact—it's at my house in Sausalito."

"Just who attends this poker game?"

"Don't sound so wary! I'll just bet you're picturing a bunch of giggling females, gossiping while they toss cards around."

"Something like that."

"How old are you, David?" she asked him abruptly.

"Thirty-six," he said. "Why?"

"I was just wondering how long it takes a man to develop so many ridiculous assumptions."

"I was always a quick study," he said, grinning at her.

Chapter 3

«
^
»

"
G
eorge was reading about the Romanovs," Elliot said to David the next day in the hospital cafeteria. "Our son's name is Alexander Nicholas, which is close enough for jazz, I suppose. I guess it beats Lance or Stud."

David raised his cup of coffee. "Congratulations, and the name is quite a handle. George is feeling okay today?"

"She's got the energy of a tiger, which is frightening as hell. She was already out of bed this morning, staring in the nursery window."

"Is she breast-feeding?"

Elliot shook his head. "Her career prohibits it. Can't have a cover girl all filled with milk, you know."

"My wife breast-fed our kids," David said. "Her mother deemed it appropriate."

Elliot looked at David intently and felt a pang of concern. He sounded depressed as hell. "Your kids coming out for the Christmas holiday?"

"Yep. I can't imagine how they're going to adjust to laid back California."