Pursued by the Playboy (7 page)

There was the question Marc had been dreading.  How many times had he heard it over the years?  Hundreds?  Thousands?  And he still flinched every time. 

With Mrs. Feldman, the situation was even more difficult than usual.  Her family history raised the specter of a hereditary cancer gene mutation like BRCA, which was responsible for many early onset cases of ovarian and breast cancer.  If she turned out to be a BRCA carrier, it meant that regardless of her current pathology, she would remain at high risk for developing both ovarian and breast cancer.   The BRCA gene was like a ticking time-bomb.  To defuse it, carriers of the mutation often elected to do prophylactic surgery to remove the ovaries, and
to
undergo
double mastectomies with breast reconstruction, all in the hope of avoiding the cancer that could eventually take their lives.  Some put off surgery in order to complete their childbearing; others went the route of adoption, or used donor eggs and surrogates, to avoid the possibility of passing on the BRCA gene.

But that was a discussion best saved for another time.  Right now, the question still hung in the air:  “Am I going to die?”

Marc kept his voice steady.  “Even if this turns out to be cancer, if we’re lucky and there hasn’t been any spread beyond the ovary itself, then your chances of beating it are quite good.  Five-year survival rates for stage one are upwards of ninety percent.”  He paused, then continued in a softer tone, “More advanced stages have lower survival rates.  But we’ll know more after surgery.” 

Mrs. Feldman started crying again.  Her husband edged his chair closer so he could wrap his arm around her. 

Several minutes passed before Marc finally broke the silence.  “I know it’s a lot to absorb.   You’ll have questions, and I’ll be glad to answer them.  But first, let’s have the nurse get you set up in the exam room next door.  I’ll need to do a pelvic exam,
repeat the ultrasound,
and then we’ll draw some blood.  Afterwards, we can meet back here and discuss the next step.”

###

The rest of the morning flew by, and before he knew it, it was lunchtime.   Marc shed his white coat and collapsed into the Aeron chair behind his desk.   There was a monthly Morbidity & Mortality conference to attend.  Charts from the morning awaiting dictation.  A handful of phone messages from patients and various colleagues requiring callbacks.

He was tempted to chuck it all and just head over to Kate’s lab.  Take her out for a bite at some nearby café. Or perhaps even inveigle her into a quickie in her office, as long as no students were milling about, and assuming he could cajole her out of her self-consciousness long enough to get her naked. 

The thought briefly lifted his mood.  But before he could act on it, his receptionist buzzed through the intercom.  “Dr. DiStefano on line two.”

Sighing, he picked up the phone.  “Which Dr. DiStefano are you?”

Emma laughed.  “I knew I should have changed my name when I married Alex.”

“Never too late, Em.”  He rifled through the pile of pink message slips.  “What’s up?”

“I need a favor.  Feel free to say no.”

“No.”

“
You
have to hear me out
first
, you dweeb.”

His sisters were alone among the female population who felt compelled to insult him.  As Emma was quick to point out, the fatuous adoration he enjoyed from the opposite sex was bound to ruin his character, and it was his sisters’ duty to keep that from happening.

“Fine.  What do you need?”

“Alex is out of town taking a deposition, and apparently there’s been some delay.  He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”

“Okay.  You need someone to babysit?”  He scrolled through the schedule on his Blackberry and mentally rearranged his plans with Kate.  Instead of an intimate dinner out, perhaps he could bring her along and introduce her to his nephews.  She might feel less threatened without all the other relatives around.  He could just picture her, hair and clothes askew and grubby from contact with sticky fingers.  Of course he’d have to clear it with Emma first.  “I’m on call tonight, but I can do tomorrow.” 

“Actually, I’m all set on the sitter front.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  The twinge of disappointment caught him by surprise.  As important as his family was to him, he had never in the past gone out of his way to spend time with his nephews.  Their entertainment repertoire was still pretty limited, consisting mostly of crawling as fast as possible out of range of whichever adult was nearby.  In the last month or so they’d upgraded to a few hesitant steps followed by soft landings on well-padded bottoms that led inevitably to fits of giggles.   Other than making sure that they didn’t come to any harm on his watch—something that could be remarkably tricky despite the fact that they weren’t fully mobilized yet—he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. 

Unlike some of his male cousins, who vied for the opportunity to babysit.  “Babies are great chick-magnets,” his twenty-two year old cousin Frank claimed.  “Better even than puppies.”

Emma, who had overheard that remark, rolled her eyes and smacked the back of her hand against Frank’s bicep.  “Like Marc needs any additional props as chick-magnets.”

But the comment had stuck with him, and he wondered if there was some universal truth to it that could be applied even to women like Kate, who vehemently denied any desire for children. 

Emma’s voice pulled him from him thoughts.  “It’s black tie.  The usual finger food, kissy-kissy, mingling out in the open air for an hour or so.  The concert starts at eight.”

“What concert?”

“Hello?  Haven’t you been listening?  Condi Rice, on piano.  Aretha Franklin.  The
Philadelphia
Orchestra.”

“I didn’t know Condoleeza Rice played piano.”

“Apparently she’s quite good.  We’ve had tickets for ages, and now Alex has bailed on me last minute.  I don’t really want to go alone.” 

“Where is it?”

“At the Mann.”  As if sensing his hesitation, she added, “It’s for a good cause.  They’re raising money to fund arts education for underprivileged kids.”

He made one last attempt to salvage his dinner plans with Kate.  “Isn’t there anyone else you could ask?”

“I thought I’d give you first dibs.  But if you’ve got some hot date that you can’t break…”

Hell, yeah.  But he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut.

Emma, less circumspect, pursued the issue.  “What’s her name?”

He sighed.  There was nothing more relentless than a sister’s curiosity.   “Her name is Kate, and I can probably change our reservations to a different night.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!  I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite brother.”

The familiar line brought a grudging smile to his lips. 

“So does this Kate have a last name?”

Marc briefly considered cutting the conversation short.  But his sister was like a hound that had caught the scent of fox in the air.  And besides, he’d invited Kate to his nephews’ birthday party next weekend.  She’d turned him down, true, but it wasn’t like he was trying to hide her existence from his family.  “Warner,” he said.  “Her name is Kate Warner.”

There were several moments of silence on the other end as Emma flipped through a mental Rolodex.  “Not the woman from the OCRF gala?  The girl genius who got the top research award?”

“That’s the one.”

“You dog!”

Marc pulled back his shirt cuff to glance at his watch.  “If all you’re going to do is call me names, maybe you should find yourself another escort for tomorrow.”

“No, wait.  I promise, no more razzing.”  The muffled sound of voices interrupted her.  “Listen, I’ve to go.  My next appointment is here.  See you six-thirty
tomorrow.”

###

Marc ended up working through lunch, his attention periodically straying from the paperwork in front of him, back to the events of the morning.  

His thoughts kept circling around to Mr. and Mrs. Feldman, the couple whose prospects for having children were suddenly dimmed by the sobering threat of cancer. If his suspicions proved right, and Mrs. Feldman had ovarian cancer as well as the BRCA gene mutation, the situation was even grimmer than he had let on.  The fact was, unless they had unlimited resources to fund a surrogate pregnancy with donor eggs, or to search outside routine channels for adoption, their chances of having a child were pretty slim.  The woman had already lost the genetics lottery, and the treatment that would likely be required to save her life could render her biologically incapable of carrying a child.  And adoption agencies had notoriously strict criteria regarding the health of prospective parents, requiring documentation of extended cancer-free periods before even considering an application.  As Mrs. Feldman had said, they had waited too long on the mistaken belief that they had all the time in the world.

It was a common assumption.  Hell, he’d been guilty of it himself.  He was thirty-six years old, and outside of his career, he had very little to show for it. 

“By the time your father was your age,” his stepmother Sophia would sometimes tell him, “he’d already been married twice, had two children, and another on the way. 
S
ame with your cousin Nick. 
And look at Emma.  She’s twenty-eight, married, has two kids.  What are you waiting for?”

Lately, he found himself wondering that as well.  He had always assumed that someday he would have children.  Despite that, the idea of settling down was not something he had seriously entertained until now. 

After four years in college and another four in medical school, followed by seven additional years in training between residency and fellowship, he had been ready to break free.  Too many years of confinement in school and medical training had taken their toll.  By the time he had paid his dues in thirty-six-hour shifts and every third night on call, years of interrupted meals and the twilight of perpetual sleep deprivation, the last thing he wanted was to be tied down.  No long-term relationship for him, no sir.  He was ready to enjoy himself, and reap the rewards--both professional and personal--of all those years of hard work.

Not that he’d been a monk even during school and training.  There had been fellow students, and nurses, and daughters of his parents’ friends—the same tony set that attended the annual Devon Horse Show, and kicked up its heels at the Black Tie & Boots Ball. 

But by the time he had finished with the insane schedule of his days as a student and doctor-in-training, and joined a private hospital-based practice, he felt like a stallion pawing the starting line at the Kentucky Derby, raring to let loose.  Eager to experience the sights and sounds and flavors of life unfettered by the constraints of career.  And he’d gone overboard, dating a new woman every
few
week
s
, trolling for fresh game among the ballrooms that hosted every charity event his family had ever backed.  His wake became littered with women he’d wined and dined, slept with and kissed goodbye—
the parting
usually by mutual agreement.  He tried to restrict himself to women who knew the score and were as casual in their liaisons as he was. 

The one thing he avoided at all costs was getting involved with women through work.  Patients, for obvious reasons, were strictly off limits.  Likewise colleagues and staff, because he learned early on the dangers inherent in dirtying his own nest.  Too many physicians he’d known had gone down that path and been burned by sexual harassment lawsuits, paternity suits, or simply the fallout at work of a relationship that had ended badly.  That was the last thing he needed in his otherwise blessed life.

But after four years of catting around, the allure was starting to fade.  He was getting tired of the same preening over-styled women who sought pleasure and publicity with equal fervor, who chased him for his money and connections and didn’t care what lay behind his polished veneer and easy smile.

For the first time, he found himself looking at Emma’s family unit—her stodgy lawyer husband and her twins with their snotty noses and gummy smiles—with something remarkably akin to envy.

He had already begun thinking of easing back
from the frenetic social whirl
by the time he first clapped eyes on Kate, with her gamin looks and fire-breathing passion, at the podium of the OCRF gala.  And that was it. 

Something inside him shifted whenever he was with her.  Even when he wasn’t in her presence, but was just thinking about her—and that was happening far too often for someone who in the past had been able to focus single-mindedly on work to the exclusion of all else—he felt a bit breathless, his chest a bit tight.  At random moments during the day, his concentration would wander and he would lose the thread of conversations, as he recalled the way the sun glinted in Kate’s hair while they biked along Kelly Drive, or the sparkle of passion in her eyes as she railed against persistent inequities in the treatment of women, or the breathy sounds she made when he was lodged deep inside her.

In the short time they had known each other—was it really just seventeen days?—he felt more in tune with Kate than with any of the women he’d gone through in previous years.  There was something about her that drew him, like a hummingbird to nectar, a craving for her presence, her touch, the sound of her voice.  For the first time in his adult life, he found himself wondering what was going through a woman’s mind, wanting to share the highlights and worries of his day with her, looking forward to hearing her opinion on whatever issues were left unresolved.