Just Married...Again

He covered his sleeping wife with the blankets that he’d warmed by the fire and tucked them about her.

Maddy opened her eyes. “Michael?” She blinked several times. “Where did you get these blankets?”

He shivered. “From the sofa.”

“They were meant for you. One bedsheet isn’t going to keep you warm.”

“I’ll be okay, Maddy,” he said. “Just get some sleep.” He turned to leave.

“I refuse to take your blankets. Get in the bed. Hurry, before you catch pneumonia.”

Michael stared at her, slack-jawed, wondering if he’d heard right. Had Maddy just offered to share her bed with him? “What did you say?”

She pulled the covers aside. “We’ll have to sleep close so we can share our body heat.” When he simply stood there, she gave an impatient huff. “Don’t just stand there. This is a matter of survival!”

Michael nodded dumbly and climbed into bed, burrowing beneath the blankets. Maddy turned her back to him and scooted close so they were lying spoon fashion. As he lay there, pressed against her softness, enveloped in her scent, only one coherent thought entered his mind.

Eureka!

All rights reserved, in whole or in part, in any format. The content should not be used commercially without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is provided for your personal enjoyment.

This book was originally published as a
Loveswept
paperback in 1998 in a slightly altered form, by Bantam Press, a Division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group. The content that follows is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons and events is coincidental.

Michael Kelly could see Dr. Quigley was peeved about something, and he suspected it had to do with his blood pressure reading. Although the nurse had already taken it twice, Dr. Quigley had insisted on checking it personally. Finally, the doctor pulled the cuff from his patient’s upper arm and glared at him through owlish eyes that had a tendency to bulge when he became upset.

“What’s the problem?” Michael said, having grown weary of the doc’s accusing looks. He raked his fingers through hair the color of Brazil nuts and fixed the older man with a hard look. It was a tactic he used quite successfully in court to denote his growing impatience with a witness or opposing attorney. Clearly, it said he thought it was time to get the show on the road.

Michael suspected it was all lost on Quigley. The old bear wasn’t easily intimidated. He wondered why he continued to use the cantankerous physician when there were plenty of other doctors in the area. Habit, no doubt. Dr. Quigley had been treating the Kelly family for years.

There were times Quigley acted as if Michael were still a kid. It didn’t matter that at thirty-three, Michael Kelly had reached a level of success most men struggled toward all their lives. He had already made full partner at Smyth-McGraw, one of the oldest and most respected law firms in Charlotte, North Carolina. With more than one hundred attorneys in residence, Michael was in the higher echelon of lawyers and enjoyed a handsome salary that afforded him Armani suits, Rolex watches, and customized BMWs.

He knew Quigley wouldn’t be impressed. The doctor bought his suits at an outlet store, and he bragged that his Volvo station wagon still ran as well as it had when he’d bought it twenty years before. He wouldn’t know the difference between a Rolex and a Timex, and he wouldn’t care.

Michael knew those things were important at Smyth-McGraw. A client had only to step inside the expansive main lobby with its marble floors and columns and gaze at the oil portraits of the distinguished founding partners to know that he was getting the very best in legal representation. And while Michael conducted himself with the same subdued professionalism exhibited by his colleagues, he could fight dirty when he had to. One newspaper reporter had referred to him as “a street fighter in gentleman’s clothes,” when Michael had sparred with an older attorney who’d treated him like a first-year law student. Michael had won the case and had proved he could stand his own ground, while at the same time remaining the consummate professional and treating his older opponent with the utmost respect. The opposing attorney had invited Michael to dine with him at his private club afterward and had offered him a position in his firm. Michael, though flattered, had gracefully declined.

He saw that Dr. Quigley was looking through his pharmaceutical reference. “Would you tell me what’s wrong?” he said, noting the doctor’s spiky, gunmetal-gray eyebrows were drawn together so tightly, they formed a single horizontal slash across his forehead. The last time the doc had given him that look, he’d followed it up with a discussion on safe sex. Michael had been fifteen at the time, and too embarrassed to admit he was still a virgin.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Quigley said. “If that’s the case, then I’ll have to refer you to a psychiatrist.”

“I don’t need a psychiatrist,” Michael said tersely. “Just tell me what the problem is.” He was in the middle of a wrongful death suit and was expected back at the courthouse in an hour. He didn’t have time to play guessing games with the doctor.

“You had your last physical eighteen months ago, and your blood pressure was one ten over eighty. Today, it’s sitting at one sixty over one ten.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “At this rate you should have a stroke by Thanksgiving.”

Michael knew the man tended to overreact. He also coddled his patients. When Michael had had a hernia repair at the age of eleven, he’d been forbidden to play sports for the rest of the summer. Quigley had sent him a collection of Zane Grey novels to pass the time. “You’re telling me I have less than a week of good, quality life left, is that it?”

“This is no joking matter, boy,” the doctor said. “In fact, you’re lucky you started having those headaches.”

“Lucky?” That was a strange thing to say considering the pain he’d been in the past couple of weeks. When the headaches continued to get worse, he figured he had a brain tumor. His first thought was of his soon-to-be ex-wife. Maddy was going to feel guilty as hell for leaving him when she found out how sick he was. Oddly enough, the thought cheered him.

He could just imagine himself lingering, wasting away, and Maddy, with her good heart, nursing him, confessing her unending devotion. Then he remembered her parting shot, something along the lines of “eat dirt and die,” and decided he might be hoping for too much.

“Most people don’t have any warning,” Quigley was saying. “They just go about their business while their condition worsens. Next thing they know they’re in the hospital.” He studied the younger man in silence. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Michael. When did you start smoking? And don’t try and deny it, because I smelled it on you the minute I walked through that door.”

“I only smoke occasionally,” Michael replied. Like when he had a stiff drink to unwind after a grueling day in court, or on those occasional Sundays when he found himself home with too much time on his hands and too many memories whirling about in his head. And then there were those nights his body ached so badly for his wife, he couldn’t sleep.

The nights were the hardest. He damn near smoked an entire pack of cigarettes while waiting for the sun to come up.

“And you’ve gained weight,” Quigley added.

“I haven’t gained all that much.”

“You can make all the excuses you like,” the doctor said, “but we both know you let yourself go the minute Maddy walked out.”

Michael’s jaw suddenly became hard as concrete. His eyes flashed with outrage. “I don’t need a lecture, Doc. I just finished one of the biggest trials of my career, and I’m beat. As for my impending divorce, that topic is not open for discussion.”

Quigley seemed to realize he’d gone too far and backed off. “You’ve got to stop putting in so many hours,” he said, his tone more gentle. “You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t start learning to have a little fun.”

Some of the stiffness left Michael. “I’ve been trying to cut back on my workload,” he said, which was true, “and I’ve recently started jogging again.” He knew the doctor was right. He
had
let himself go. But Maddy’s leaving ten months earlier had hit him hard, like a locomotive at full speed. He’d been so far down, he never thought he’d get back up. He had no energy for exercise; it was all he could do to drag himself to work and home again. He’d narrowed his priorities down to work and survival.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to help you.” Quigley looked sad.

“What?” Michael was surprised. He couldn’t believe this was the same doctor who’d had all the answers when he was growing up. Surely he wasn’t so ill that Quigley couldn’t fix him up. “Can’t you write me a prescription or something?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. This sort of thing requires a whole new lifestyle, a commitment to change.”

Michael sighed heavily and resisted checking his wristwatch. “Okay, tell me what you want me to do.”

“When was the last time you had a vacation?”

Michael tried to remember. “Maddy and I used to spend an occasional weekend at our mountain cabin.” He wasn’t about to tell the old doc that he usually dragged his briefcase along with him. He and Maddy had knocked heads more than once over it. She’d had no idea what it was like to work for a big law firm, the hours of billing he was expected to hand in. Even after making full partner, he still put in ten-and twelve-hour workdays, sometimes seven days a week.

“Maybe that’s what you need,” Quigley said, “A week in the mountains.”

“A whole week?” Michael said with a frown.

“Two days isn’t going to do it. I’ll start you on medication, but I’m prescribing a week to ten days of R and R to go with it.” He reached for his prescription pad. “Also, I have some literature I want you to read. It’ll give you information on your condition and how to control it.”

His
condition
? Michael didn’t like the sound of it, didn’t like the thought of having limitations when his health had always been excellent. With a twinge of alarm, he looked at the stack of materials Quigley handed him: “Heart Attack and Stroke: Signals and Action,” “Smoke and Stroke—Two Things You Can Live Without,” and “Stroke Prevention: The Brain at Risk.” Damn, was he really that bad off?

He pondered the idea of staying at the cabin. Maddy had insisted on putting it on the market soon after their separation, but so far they hadn’t had any takers. He could probably afford to take some time off over Thanksgiving. Things really slowed down at the office during the holidays. He wouldn’t have to worry about Maddy showing up, since she’d claimed often enough that the place held too many bad memories for her. Michael had taken offense. Sure, he’d spent a lot of time working, but they’d had good times as well.

Quigley tore the top sheet from the pad and handed it to him. “I’m giving you a couple of prescriptions that will help lower your blood pressure, and I want you to lose some weight. You need to exercise more—you can take long walks at the cabin—and you’ll have to cut back on the alcohol and sodium. I’m afraid you’ll have to go on a special diet to reduce dietary saturated fats and cholesterol.”

Michael could feel his eyes glazing over. “Could you possibly confuse me any worse than you already have?”

“It’s all spelled out in the literature there. I want to see you back in here the Monday following Thanksgiving.” He closed Michael’s file, and they both started for the door. “Oh, and don’t forget to take your camera with you to the mountains. I’ll be looking forward to seeing the pictures of your vacation.”

Several hours later Maddy Kelly entered Dr. Quigley’s office wearing black leggings, a ribbed black-and-yellow-striped tee, and yellow Reeboks. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders in natural waves and curls, a hairstyle that was easy to keep, since she usually showered several times a day. She was surprised to find the doctor himself waiting to give her an injection.

“This
is an honor,” she said, pushing up her sleeve the minute she stepped into the examination room. “Where’s your nurse?”

“She had some personal business to attend to,” Quigley said, swabbing a small area of her upper arm with rubbing alcohol. He gave her the shot and fixed a round Band-Aid in place. “Aren’t you a sight for these tired, old eyes,” he said. “You look like a bumblebee in that outfit.”

Maddy frowned. “I don’t like bumblebees, remember?” She’d been stung by one the previous summer and had suffered an allergic reaction. This explained why she was taking weekly injections and carried a bee-sting kit in her purse. While it wasn’t likely she’d run into any bees now that the weather had turned cold, she was trying to complete the series of injections that would build up her tolerance to the venom.