Sisterhood Read Free

but this morning, he decided, could be an exception. He was a muscular man, with broad shoulders and powerful arms that made him appear heavier than his 175 pounds. There were slivers of gray throughout his black, bushy hair. His wide, youthful eyes ran the spectrum from bright blue to pale green, depending on the light. Fine creases, once transient and now indelible, traversed his forehead and the bridge of his nose.
    He stood in the center of the kitchen rubbing his hands together with mock professionalism. “Zo, ve crrreate ze brrreakfast.” He swung open the refrigerator door. “Ze choices, zey are many, yes?” His voice echoed back from near-empty shelves.
    Once, after hopelessly blackening two steaks, he had announced to Lauren, “I think I’ll write a culinary arts book for the single man. I’m going to call it
Cooking for None
.”
    Selecting breakfast fare was not difficult. “Let us zee … ve could haf tomato juice or … tomato juice. Ze English muffin, eet looks nice, non? … And zee five ecks, zey beg to be scrrrambled, yes?”
    Lauren breezed into the dining alcove as he was setting their meal on the table. “Nicely done,” she said, surveying his work. “You’ll make a wonderful wife for someone someday.” A few strands of glistening hair fell from beneath the towel she had wrapped around her head. Her smile announced that, as advertised, she was starting the morning over again.
    “So,” David said deliberately, “what are your plans for this day?” He was pleased at having fought back the impulse to blurt out his good news. He would disclose it casually, in the same matter-of-fact way Lauren so often told him about the luncheon she had been to at the White House or the assignment she had won to cover thus-or-so senator’s campaign.
    “David, do you have something you want to tell me? she said.
    “Pardon?” He stretched for one last bit of insouciance.
    Lauren smiled. “My college roommate once had a surprise party for me. Just before everyone jumped out and yelled, she had the same expression on her face as you do now.”
    “Well, I guess I do have a little good news,” he said, his nonchalance now a parody. “Dr. Wallace Huttner—
the
Dr. Wallace Huttner—is leaving town tomorrow for a few days.”
    “And?”
    “And … he’s asked me to make rounds with him this evening and to take over his patients until he gets back.”
    “Oh, David, that’s wonderful,” Lauren said. “Wallace Huttner! I’m impressed. The most widely acclaimed pair of hands to come out of Boston since Arthur Fiedler.”
    “Well, now we know that he’s smart enough to recognize true surgical talent when he sees it. I’m covering his practice until he gets back from a three-day conference on the Cape.”
    “And there you sit, trying to impress me with how blasé you can act about the whole thing. What a funny duck you are, David.”
    The scrambled eggs, none too appetizing to begin with, remained on her plate as Lauren fired one question after another at him.
    “Huttner was written up in
Time
, do you know that?”
    “So he’s operated on a few sheiks and prime ministers. He still puts his scrub suit on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us.”
    “Be serious for once, will you? Could this mean more money for you?”
    David’s eyes narrowed. He studied her face for a few seconds, looking for more than superficial interest behind her question. Although his lack of a typical surgeon’ssalary came up infrequently, a battle of some sort was sure to follow whenever it did. Lauren seemed unable or unwilling to accept the fickle economic realities of a medical specialty that was dependent on referrals from other physicians, especially in a city like Boston with its surfeit of doctors.
    Even after two years at Boston Doctors Hospital he realized that many of his colleagues still had reservations about him. Word had filtered back. “Shelton? Oh, yes, I suppose I could refer this woman to