An Abundant Woman Read online

  Most of the flight from London I'd thought about Nigel's parting words, pecking at them from one direction and then another, as though I could unearth their hidden meaning. To very little effect. Nigel, master stonewaller, had once again managed to totally bewilder me. Wasn't he the one who professed to see no reason to change the status of our marriage?

  Well, I wasn't going to spend a beautiful morning worrying about Nigel's intentions. Here I was in Wisconsin, and not just for a holiday. This was a six-month fellowship. Having done an obstetric/gynecology residency in the South while Nigel did a biochemistry fellowship at Duke many years before, I had maintained my American medical license ever since. And my tenacity was finally going to pay off.

  My boss wasn't qualified in America, and could have done nothing more than observe and pontificate—which were his favorite activities in any case. But I would be free to absorb the whole experience, to do procedures, to learn new methods, to see how well a typical American university OB/GYN department had adopted the ECPC guidelines we'd all agreed to.

  There would be time to think about my marriage later, now that I was thousands of miles away from Nigel. I'd been putting off doing that for far too long.

  But I was not going to start now. I scooted out of bed and walked over to the window. My view encompassed the green bower of rear garden, shrubs and trees, but on the fringes I could see neighboring houses. None of them was as unique as Mayfield House but they looked large and well-kept.

  It was a cluster of purple flowers in the garden that caught my eye, however. From this distance I couldn't tell what they were, but I suspected they were lilacs, and couldn't believe I'd find them in Wisconsin in early May. Which led me to throw on a pair of slacks and a boldly-patterned jumper, and, pocketing the key I found beside the tray, I quietly let myself out of my “unit,” as Cliff Lenzini had called it.

  The house was silent at that hour. On a Saturday morning people probably didn't stir until well past their usual hour, if London was any example. Not that London isn't always throbbing with activity, but it's a different kind on the weekends. If I'd been up most of the night for a complicated delivery, before going home I loved to sit with a cup of tea in Hampstead Village to watch the area come alive. And remember how different it had been when we'd first moved there almost fifteen years ago.

  The Mayfield House hallways had carpeting that deadened the sound of my footsteps, but I could faintly hear from above me the raised voices of a man and a woman. Ah, the Australians, I remembered, glancing at my watch. Now what were they doing arguing at five-fifteen in the morning?

  Downstairs I wandered through the attractive public rooms, thinking that it might be pleasant to sit in the parlor and chat with the other guests over a cup of tea or a glass of sherry. The table in the dining room was set for breakfast, which apparently was served in warming dishes on the sideboard. There was a variety of fruit in a vividly colored bowl, so I helped myself to an apple and pocketed a pear before wandering through to the telly room.

  This contained a group of comfortable old chairs with plump pillows scattered around, and a large bowl of popcorn leftovers which made the cozy room smell like a cinema. An abandoned video tape of Casablanca remained on an oak table near the door. There was a list on the table, too, which apparently allowed tenants to choose what programs they wished to watch, or which hours they hoped to use the VCR. Very efficient, I thought; possibly Sherri's idea.

  The building itself, though fascinating, was not what beckoned to me. I found a door at the back of the entrance hall that led toward the kitchen. This was a delightful, sunny space with copper pots hanging from an iron ring above the stove. Off this room, as I'd suspected, I found a door into the rear garden. Just opening it brought in the fresh, damp smell of a spring morning, and the sound of drowsy birds twittering. There were two semi-circular gravel paths leading off, which probably joined each other deeper in the shrub-crowded garden. I took the one to the right.

  Along the path were the green tufts of perennials that would bloom later, and just beyond them yellow daffodils, purple iris and red tulips in marching clusters. I wound my way back toward the red brick wall covered with green vines that would become wisteria, or possibly jasmine. Shrubs were everywhere, blocking the view here, offering a peek of color there. I couldn't identify all of them, but thought perhaps the one I was passing was a flowering quince, not quite in bloom yet. The purple I had seen was indeed early lilac, which would come to full flower in another month.

  Toward the rear of the yard, where a trail of shrubs formed almost a hedgerow, I slipped through a grassy opening to see what was beyond it. I was startled, and a little alarmed, to find a clearing with a green wood-slatted bench, occupied by a very real human being.

  Chapter Two

  Naturally I had been told before I left England that there were homeless people all over the United States. “And they aren't always harmless, like here,” Doug had insisted from his hospital bed. “These are the mentally ill that their government doesn't want to know about or pay to treat.”

  Well, Doug loves to knock the United States whenever he can, and he was annoyed that I had been offered the opportunity to take his place, so I expected nothing less of him. Still, I stopped instantly where I was, planning to back through the hedges before I was noticed.

  That wasn't possible because the man sitting on the bench was already staring at me. He appeared just as surprised as I was, and glanced at his watch as though to confirm it was still extraordinarily early for someone else to be abroad. It was hard to determine his age, as he had one of those timeless faces that indicated he might be prematurely aged by the weight of his problems, or again look younger than he in fact was because of the openness of his countenance. His expression gave no hint of shuttering up, though a wary light darkened the depths of his sad blue eyes. He was probably close to my age, forty-three or four.

  He was barefoot, with a University sweatshirt over a pair of maroon and navy striped pajama bottoms. Obviously he hadn't come very far. He was clean, his dark hair damp from a shower. One of the residents of Mayfield House? But what was he doing out here in the middle of the night?

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, stepping back toward the shrubs. “I had no idea there was anyone here."

  “Don't let me frighten you away,” he protested, rising to a not intimidating height. “I live here."

  “Do you? In the garden?” I asked, amused. “I arrived last night. Amanda Potter."

  “Jack Hunter,” he responded, though he didn't move to shake my hand. Which was for the best, because there was something unnerving about him—the lack of a smile, or the fleeting impression that he could tell what I was thinking. “You would be the English OB/GYN, then."

  “Yes."

  He nodded. “You haven't adapted to local time yet. And you're probably hungry. Would you like me to show you where to find a snack?"

  I produced the apple from behind my back, where for some reason I appeared to be hiding it, as though he might snatch it from me. “I picked this up, and a pear. Would you like one?"

  Very much to my surprise, he accepted, choosing the pear and motioning me to a seat on the bench, which was still damp with morning dew. Ah, well, I could change my slacks when I returned to the house. “Why are you up so early?” I asked.

  He seated himself as far as possible from me on the bench. “I wake up early every day."

  I regarded his sad face and said diffidently, “I suppose you know that can be a sign of depression.”

  For the first time his lips twisted into something resembling a smile. “Do OB/GYNs practice psychiatry in England?"

  “I beg your pardon!” I said, a little stiffly. “I had no intention of diagnosing you. It was merely an observation. You'd be surprised how many of my patients are depressed. I've trained myself to look for the signs, and refer them for proper treatment."

  “And you think you see the signs in me, after an acquaintance of three minutes?"

/>   That tongue of mine, it did get me in trouble. I sighed. “I was only trying to be helpful, Mr. Hunter. Forget I said anything."

  He considered the pear in his hand for a moment and then took a bite from it. Suddenly I realized that I was famished. Though I knew the apple would have been washed by the efficient Sherri, I automatically rubbed it against my sleeve like we'd done as kids in Yorkshire after we'd swiped them from a tree. Mr. Hunter appeared amused at this piece of gaucherie, and I gave him my haughty English aristocrat look. He laughed outright.

  “You probably grew up in the East End of London,” he taunted without rancor.

  “Hardly,” I said dryly. “I'd have been lucky to come across an apple there."

  “Where then?"

  “Yorkshire, until I went off to university. But I'm very good at depressing pretension because I'm a doctor. American doctors know all about depressing pretension. Sometimes I think my British accent was the only thing that got me through the residency at Duke."

  “You're licensed in the States?” he asked, surprised.

  “Mmm-hmmm.” I took another bite of my apple. The sun had risen enough now that a bright ray shone directly through the canopy of greenery and into my eyes. The new spring leaves swayed slightly in the breeze, allowing glimpses of a sky almost too blue to be real. I had just momentarily transported myself to that Florence vacation spot when Mr. Hunter said, “I am depressed."

  Blinking to bring myself back to the present, I frowned and asked, “Well, have you done anything about it?"

  “Oh, it's not a clinical depression."

  “How do you know?"

  “Because I've never been depressed before. There have just been some things getting me down."

  “Now who's playing psychiatrist?” I quizzed him. “You may not be the best judge of your own clinical diagnosis. Has anyone else suggested that you see a psychiatrist?"

  His brows rose. “I beg your pardon?"

  “If your friends and colleagues have mentioned that it's a problem, you can be sure they've seen something you're trying to ignore."

  “Oh, for God's sake,” he said irritably, bouncing one knee up and down in place. “Everyone wants to help me. I don't need any help."

  “Maybe not from your friends, but possibly from a professional."

  He sat there glowering at me for a full minute. Then, astonishingly, he shrugged and said, “I suppose you're right. I'll see someone this coming week."

  “Good,” I said. “Tell me who keeps up the garden. Surely Sherri is too busy to do this, too."

  He looked disoriented—or disappointed?—at the abrupt change of topic, but responded, “Some fellow comes around in a truck. I don't know who he is, or how often he comes, but he manages to keep it looking wild without looking messy. You're probably a garden fancier, being English."

  “I am,” I admitted. “We have a house in Hampstead with a small garden. That's where I work off my frustrations, and even indulge in a little creativity from time to time. I'm half afraid of the condition it will be in when I get back."

  He considered me for a moment before asking, “How long will you be here?"

  “Six months. The head of my division was supposed to come, but he had a heart attack and bypass surgery. He'd planned to stay at Mayfield House, so I filled in that spot, too. At least temporarily."

  “You don't like it?"

  “It's charming, but not perhaps what I'd have chosen for myself. Rather close quarters with a lot of strangers."

  “Which is a good way to get to know some people quickly. They're an interesting group."

  “So I've heard.”

  He actually grinned. “How did Cliff describe me?"

  “He didn't give names to anyone. Let's see, there were the Australians who don't get along (I heard them as I came down), a sculptor his sister had discovered, a one-room school teacher. Are you the sculptor?"

  “None of the above. Actually I'm a pediatric neurosurgeon."

  “Ah, yes. He did mention you—going through a divorce."

  A frown lowered his dark brows. “The divorce was final some time ago. Well, half a year, but I suppose it was Cliff's way of saying I've become a sullen, reclusive bore. Not that he knew me before all this happened. He and Angel only came to Wisconsin last summer, though Angel grew up here. I remember her from when she was in medical school. I was surprised she didn't choose to do her residency here."

  “A charming woman.” I wasn't sure what to say about Cliff Lenzini, my impressions being mixed, so I said nothing. I rose, pocketing my apple core. “Is your real name John?"

  With a gentleman's natural courtesy he rose also, his sturdy, athletic body more apparent at its full height. Surprised by my question, he said, “Yes."

  “John Hunter. Amazing."

  He knew what I meant, and nodded. “I think the only reason I became a doctor was because I read a biography of him when I was in high school. And the only reason I read the biography was because he had the same name I had."

  “Wonderful! He was part of my inspiration for becoming a doctor, too. The brilliance of that uneducated mind took my breath away. I memorized some of the truths he taught: ‘Never perform an operation on another person which, under similar circumstances, you would not have performed upon yourself.’ We don't do half as well today. And I loved that he'd come from such a simple family, like mine."

  “And mine,” he admitted. “So few people know his name. I think you're the first person who's ever made the association, and I'm delighted."

  A surprising amount of warmth seemed to pass between us, as though we'd identified each other as kin, or something. But he was standing there in his pajama bottoms, so I said, “I've imposed on you quite long enough, Dr. Hunter. I'll just make my way around the rest of the garden."

  “No one else will be up for hours. On Saturday breakfast isn't even set out until eight. Are you sure you don't want me to help you find something to eat?"

  “Thanks, I'll manage.” As I turned away, I said, “I hope you won't think I've interfered, but I'm glad you're going to see someone."

  I could feel him stiffen slightly, but he murmured, “Not at all. A pleasure to have met you, Dr. Potter."

  “Amanda,” I responded, automatically, and strolled off as though with the intent of identifying down to the last spring bulb the variety of plants in the Mayfield House garden.

  In truth I was a little distressed by the meeting. I had only been away from Nigel for a day and already some tenuous feelings of liberation were stirring in me. Not that I'd never felt attracted to some man in London, but one didn't usually run into them in their pajamas, in rather acute depression, in one's garden. Probably it was the doctor in me, I thought with a sigh. And didn't believe it for a minute.

  Because of the time difference, I realized I could call Nigel. My hours of en route debate had provided me with no answers, except that I had no wish to refer to our “separation.” Let him bring it up if he chose. My guess was that since he'd only raised the issue when there was no time to deal with it, he wasn't ready for a full-fledged discussion. He'd never been ready for a full-fledged discussion of our marriage.

  Nigel had phrased his talk of a “separation” almost as though I'd requested one, almost as though it was for my convenience. And though an actual separation had not occurred to me, I had certainly realized from the moment I decided to leave for six months that I would be reevaluating my marriage while I was away. Did Nigel's bringing it up mean that he would be doing the same?

  One of the first things Nigel had said when I told him about the sudden opportunity to go to Wisconsin was, “Now I'll feel better that I dragged you to North Carolina all those years ago. You'll get some benefit from having done that hellacious residency."

  Nigel himself had benefited immediately on our return to England from getting his biochemistry doctorate at Duke. Biochemistry is his life, in many ways. He eats, sleeps and breathes his work, and he's brilliant at it. His family, Cass and I
, run a good second, mostly because he's trained himself—or we've trained him—to remember birthdays and appointments and all the trivia of life that escape so many dedicated people. With both Cass and me away, he must have had a shining vision of six whole months in which he could totally immerse himself in his research.

  “How was the trip?” he asked when I finally reached him at his lab.

  “Not bad. And the rooming house is a charmer, though I'm not sure I'll stay here. I'd like a place with a kitchen of my own."

  “It might be helpful to have someone else providing meals on a schedule,” he pointed out. This was one of Nigel's subtle ways of referring to my weight management, or lack thereof. Nigel assumes that one day I'll decide to lose weight—as if it were a choice one could make, like picking a set of curtains. I had long since given up trying to make him understand.

  “Well, I haven't made up my mind yet. I suspect the woman who cooks here is quite talented."

  “Save your energy for your work,” he recommended. “Cooking for one is a bore, and this is the experience of a lifetime, Mandy. You have an opportunity to make first-hand comparisons in treatment and outcome between the two countries. By the time you come back, you'll have an article for The Lancet. Doug will be green with envy."

  An inspiring thought. “There's a delicious garden here, with spring flowers in riots of color. You'll be sure to look after my garden, won't you, or have someone come around?"

  “I promised I would, and I'll take care of it. Sybil left a casserole, thinking I'd starve with you away. But she mentioned in her note that her gardener might be able to squeeze us in."

  “That would be perfect. And you will remember to eat, won't you?” Unlike me, Nigel is thin as a rail with no apparent hunger signals to guide him toward a meal at the proper time. “I left lots of frozen things in the fridge."