Miracle for the Neurosurgeon Read online

  Nothing made sense since she’d popped back into his life. Before, he’d lived for his routine, worked like a fiend in the gym until exhausted, so he could sleep. And forget.

  Now she was here and he’d started remembering. The problem was all he wanted to do was forget. What was the point in remembering?

  It was too late. He lived in an AP world. Everything had changed.

  So why was he still looking forward to passive ROM later today?

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARY ATE HOMEMADE granola with milk, preparing for another day of getting Wesley Van Allen back to where he should be. Physically, anyway. As she did so she sat on her front porch and took in the view of the thickly overcast morning and the sound of a cranky sea. Strangely, it calmed her.

  Since spending so much time with Wesley the past week, she’d been inundated with memories of him at eighteen. The year she’d met him. Tall, tanned, athletic in a tennis player kind of way. Not nearly as buff as he was now, but he’d definitely looked fit. Hair nearly dark as midnight, with light brown eyes softening his otherwise commanding demeanor. Not your everyday brand of handsome. Back then he’d seemed so worldly and independent, so sure of himself. It had also been evident his parents had treated him like a prince. Alexandra had nicknamed him the Prince of Westwood and had snickered with Mary every time he proved it.

  She could only imagine how shocking his becoming paraplegic had been to all of them, but most especially to a guy who’d never met a challenge he couldn’t take on and win.

  Was that why he’d agreed to give Mary two months? Because she’d stared into those unwavering eyes and dared him to?

  Instead of graduating high school and heading off to university in another state, like most of his high-achieving friends, Wes had elected to attend U.C.L.A. Even though less than ten miles down the road from his West Los Angeles family house, he’d taken a dorm room, probably to feel some independence, but had still gone home every weekend. His mother had lavished attention on him, and his father had exuded paternal pride, feeding his princely calling. Neurosurgeon. Who’d want to move away from that? Alexandra had used to confide in Mary that she resented it. When she’d called after he’d first had his accident she’d sounded devastated and, more recently, desperate to help him.

  Luckily for Mary—the teen who had seen Wesley as nothing less than a heartthrob—he had often been home for weeknight dinner. She’d kept her little secret from Alexandra, worried it could impact their friendship and she’d think Mary only came around because of him. Mary had loved Alex for accepting her for who she was. She’d found an amazing second home and hadn’t wanted to risk losing it.

  “Why eat cafeteria food when I have Sarah, the best cook in L.A., fixing dinner?” Wesley had once answered succinctly, when Mary had gotten up the nerve to strike up a conversation with him, using dinner as the “fascinating” topic, so flummoxed by his presence that it was the only subject she could think of. With her living in a trailer park, they’d shared so little of anything else.

  Mary had never tasted such delicious food in her life before going to dinner at the Van Allens’. Her parents’ idea of a home-cooked meal was a microwaved frozen dinner. If she was lucky that frozen meal hadn’t started out with freezer burn. Eating at the Van Allens’ had opened up a whole new world of culinary delights, and tastes she’d developed on her own all the years since.

  She took another bite of the granola, which she’d baked in her own tiny oven until the honey glaze had been just right on the almonds and walnuts. She especially liked the addition of fresh coconut, now roasted to perfection and scattered throughout the nuts, seeds, and oats mixture. She’d definitely make this recipe again. Maybe she should take Wes some.

  His attractiveness had improved with time, giving him character. She liked the hint of gray at his temples, and the fine lines accentuating his brown eyes. It seemed the high-stress workouts made them grow darker. Probably the hell-bound determination mixed with adrenaline was the reason for his dilated pupils.

  When she managed to make him smile, which happened more and more often as they worked out together, she loved the grooves on either side of his mouth. She could tell an authentic smile, which brightened his entire face, from the obligatory ones that never reached those eyes. But most of all, since she’d first arrived a week ago, like boards getting ripped from a wall, their barriers had started to come down.

  Yesterday he’d even invited her to watch a video with him, some crazy movie about an unlikely group of men and animals who guarded the galaxy. Who’d have thought he liked silly movies like that, and it had felt wonderful to laugh with him as they’d shared a bowl of popcorn. Also his suggestion. Had he always been an everyday guy, but she’d never noticed, or had his accident been the cause? And could she call a man stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life an everyday guy?

  Her heart clutched hard over his situation, but she refused to let it bring her down. She’d treated patients in far worse situations, and she’d learned there was something special, a certain ingredient that made the difference between giving up or carrying on—and that component resided in the human spirit, something called hope. Medical reports said Wes would never walk again, but it didn’t mean his life was over…just the life he’d always known. She didn’t want to get dejected all over again about his current state, so she focused back on that silly movie they’d watched together yesterday. The popcorn. The laughs. And she smiled.

  Mary thought hard. Had they ever laughed together when they were teenagers? Surely, if they had, she would have remembered how robust his laugh was, how it infected her and made her giggle right along. Once yesterday, while laughing, they’d glanced at each other. She’d tried to take a mental picture, because he’d looked like a man who didn’t have a care in the world. Of course it wasn’t true. Everything had changed. Still, there had been that moment. If she had to leave tomorrow, she’d carry that memory with her the rest of her days. That and the way he’d looked like an honest-to-God prince in a tux on the night of her prom when he’d told her he thought she was beautiful. And maybe that sexy dark gaze he’d unveiled after their hot make-out session at his sister’s wedding reception. His pupils had definitely been dilated then, too.

  Okay, she’d ventured too far down memory lane, leaving her tensing her inner thighs. She checked her watch. Geez! She was running late. She crammed the last bite of cereal into her mouth, rushed inside and rinsed the bowl, then brushed her teeth at the same sink. Today she planned to up the repetitions—progress—and the thought made her smile.

  Hmm, maybe she was a dominatrix in the making, but would one bring a client granola?

  That was the second time she’d grinned that morning, thanks to Wesley Van Allen.

  *

  “You ever get lost in that thing you call a house, Harris?”

  Two hours later, Wes gritted his teeth and spit out the words in mid chest press. She’d increased the usual weight by twenty-five pounds, and he handled it like nothing, even making small talk as he lifted and pressed. She liked it that he’d reverted to referring to her like he used to. Harris.

  “It’s plenty big enough, Wes. I have everything I need.”

  He glanced over, looked her up and down. “I suppose living in workout clothes helps with closet space.”

  “I’ve got plenty of regular clothes.”

  “You can’t tell me that if I invited you to Geoffrey’s for dinner you’d have something special to wear.”

  “You mean glamorous? Does anyone even do glamorous anymore? Are we talking shoulder pads and glitter? Come on, we’re in Malibu, isn’t this the home of casual?”

  “You’ve never been to Geoffrey’s, have you?”

  “Uh, no, but any woman worth her salt owns a little black dress, including me.”

  He stopped in mid-press. “Key word being ‘little’ with your living situation, I suppose.” He smiled over his snappy reply.

  “And when’s the last time you went out
to dinner?” She decided to press him on getting a normal routine. Why couldn’t and shouldn’t he go out to dinner?

  “Is that dress sexy and does it show off your curves?” He’d obviously chosen to ignore her prodding him on living a more normal life, instead turning the conversation back on her.

  She decided not to push it, and gave him a skeptical glance. “I’ve got curves? Since when?” She tried to brush off the topic, but he kept staring at her, making sure she knew he thought so. A whisper tickled through her with the promise of goose-bumps on the way, and there she was, tensing her inner thighs again.

  “So tell me about your house.” Thank goodness, he was letting her off the hook just as she had him, a moment before. Had he noticed her reaction? His eyes were back on the weights, his concentration on working his muscles.

  And she liked what she saw popping up on his back and shoulders. “It’s everything I ever wanted.”

  “I guess that means you never wanted much, huh?” This came through gritted teeth. So she had challenged him.

  She playfully kicked his foot. “Come visit. You’ll be surprised.”

  “I doubt my wheelchair would even fit inside.”

  “Of course it will. Hell, I’ll even have Heath help me build a ramp. What time do you want to come?”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll even throw in dinner. That is if you tell me where a girl can grocery shop around here first. What do you say?”

  She saw the battle ensuing in his thoughts, his troubled eyes giving him away. Of course he wouldn’t accept her invitation, he was still too intent on punishing himself for the rest of his life for going water skiing and having an accident. Just like his father had insisted, he’d accepted it had been his fault. Well, to hell with that!

  “Why not? Okay.”

  His surprising response stole some of the ire she’d worked up on behalf of his father. “Seriously, you’ll come?”

  “Sure.”

  Well, there you go. Now all she had to do was think of something spectacular to cook.

  *

  Seven o’clock sharp, Wesley made it up Heath’s makeshift ramp to Mary’s front porch in his ultralight sports chair. Small and compact, it was perfect for her house. He’d put on a pair of chinos and a button-down shirt for the first time since the accident. He’d been shocked at how loose fitting those chinos were since the last time he’d worn them, which had been before the accident. Earlier, he’d made a rash decision and used electric clippers to buzz cut his hair, military short. A Samurai topknot really wasn’t his style. He ran a hand over his scalp, liking the fine prickly feel and the fact he’d let go of the confirmed recluse look.

  Her door was open, and he had to admit that on first sight the lighting and wood-planked walls looked warm and inviting, though snug.

  Her back was to him at the far end of the single room in the designated kitchen area, her hair was down and shining extra blonde under the soft glow of the indoor lights. Smooth jazz music played over speakers. She’d put on leggings and a gauzy sleeveless tunic top that billowed around the outline of her hips and upper thighs. She was literally barefoot in her kitchen, preparing dinner for him. Bohemian and sexy—not to mention showing off her toned and sexy arms—and he didn’t need to feel from the waist down to notice that the sight of her turned him on.

  Damn, it had been a mistake to come here. What was the point? A wave of claustrophobia swept over him at the thought of going inside, being stuck in his wheelchair. He clumsily attempted to turn around on the mini-porch before she noticed, so he could go back home and forget the whole thing. He’d call and say he’d developed leg spasms or something. He didn’t fit in anymore and had already proved that by trying to go back to work three months ago. What a catastrophe.

  “Hi! Come in. I’m so glad you came.”

  Hell, she’d caught him in mid-turn. He couldn’t get out of it now.

  “What’d you do to your hair?” Her smile was genuine and welcoming and his frontline, prepared-for-action defense cut him some slack. For that moment her appeal overcame his resistance. Maybe it had something to do with those dangly copper and gold earrings that sparkled and played peekaboo with her strawberry blonde hair.

  “I figured since you’re putting me through boot camp, I may as well do the military thing.”

  “Wow, what a difference.”

  You think? He hadn’t bothered to look at himself closely in the mirror and was now curious. A buzz job was a buzz job, right? He rolled in front of a small mirror on her wall and took a look. Yeah, it was short all right. “Uh, thanks?”

  “The grunge look was never your style.”

  True, he’d always taken pride in his appearance, but since the accident he hadn’t given a flying whatever about the way he looked.

  He saw her reflection standing behind him in the mirror. Right now her opinion mattered a lot, especially with her looking so damn good.

  He turned. Rather than stare at each other, a million ideas winging through his brain, he rolled his chair around her, needing to distract where his thoughts were going and to fight off another surge of claustrophobia. “So show me around. Wait, I guess I’ve already seen everything.”

  “Ha ha. There are subtleties you’ve never imagined here, my friend. Let me point them out.”

  She showed him around a room that felt more spacious than its actual square footage, even with a whole lot of wood—knotty pine planks covering the walls, a peaked roof in the living room, laminate nearly black wood flooring. A Tyrolean mountain cabin on wheels. He noticed she’d rolled up a colorful area rug and tucked it by the wall, probably in preparation for his wheelchair. There were no less than four good-sized windows bringing in what was left of the daylight, which helped his subtle but unrelenting panic over the tiny space.

  To break up all the wood, she’d hung a bright and busy oil painting on canvas above a pull-out desk, next to the bench covered in upholstered pillows. The couch? Okay, he’d buy that. A large-sized TV was mounted on the adjacent wall, and was currently turned to the jazzy saxophone and bass stuff, accompanied by a slideshow of beautiful nature pictures. Not bad. It helped smooth out his unease.

  “Something smells great.”

  “Thanks. I found some free-range chicken cutlets at the Malibu Ranch Market. I’m trying a variation on chicken Parmigiana but with homemade pesto sauce instead of marinara. Oh, and since they had such a great assortment of wines, I chose a Pinot Grigio. Would you like some?”

  Where were his manners? He’d shown up at her house without bringing anything, because he’d refused to think of this—being sociable with an old friend—as anything other than obligation. She’d challenged him. He’d taken the dare.

  He’d had enough awkward encounters with old friends after he’d first had the accident. Everyone had tried really hard to act like everything was the same as always between them. Even his doctor friends. Except it wasn’t. He sat in a wheelchair and couldn’t pick up and do anything he wanted. Ever again. That had reminded each of his friends how much had changed between them, and had caused their visits to dwindle off. But this was Mary, not just an old friend but a physical therapist. She knew about people like him, treated him like she always had, and he felt bad about skipping a basic courtesy, like bringing wine or flowers when invited for dinner.

  “So would you like some?”

  Damn, he’d tuned out, a habit he’d gotten good at since the accident—going deep into his thoughts. “Oh. Yes, thanks.” The old and forgotten part of his personality nudged him. “Sorry I didn’t bring you any wine. I suppose the least I could do was bring dessert.” It felt kind of good, too.

  “Nonsense. I invited you. All I wanted was for you to come for dinner. See my place.” She put the wine on a narrow counter beside the refrigerator and opened it. “To prove you’d fit.”

  “What’s back there?” Curious, he pointed to a door frame with a sage-green burlap curtain. “Your pantry?”
<
br />   “My bathroom and laundry room.” She stepped aside so he could peek in.

  Everything was smaller scale than normal, pushing down on him. Even the toilet wasn’t the usual size, and there wasn’t a sink. Tension made him clutch the armrests of his chair. The glass door on the positively one-person shower gave the room—if you could call it that since it was about the size of a normal pantry—a sense of being larger. Yet he still sensed heaviness with each breath in the tiny room. The stacked front-loading, stainless-steel washer and dryer couldn’t have been more than a third of the normal size. More like Ken and Barbie-sized. What could he expect in a four-foot-by-four-foot area? But he could see for a single person on the road this would definitely do the trick, as long as Mary parked in a place with hook-ups for electricity and water. In other words, for a person who liked to go camping all the time. And definitely not for a person in a wheelchair.

  “Compact, for sure, but surprisingly functional, I suppose.” He scrambled for something positive to say.

  “Absolutely.” She opened the table lying flat against the wall, stabilized it with a latch, and placed their two wine glasses there. He rolled over and parked as she poured for both of them.

  Taking another hint from his old sociable self, he offered a toast by lifting his glass. “Of all the strange places your travels have taken you, I’m surprised…” he tipped his head in acknowledgment of her efforts “…and pleased you arrived here. Cheers.”

  He took a sip, but she stood looking at him, dumbfounded. “You’re glad I’m here?”

  “Don’t push it, Harris. Just take a drink.”

  She did, but smiled the whole time and he wondered how the wine kept from dribbling out the sides of her mouth.

  As he took another drink, his eyes glanced upward to the loft. “Now, that’s a bedroom sure to keep a guy like me away.” The irony—both practical and sexual—struck him. Had his joke been tasteless or merely true and to the point?

  She laughed good-naturedly, bearing with his crude-on-so-many-levels joke, then stepped forward and ran her hand over his head. It made him feel like a dog and he hated her for that for one second, until he saw the sweet tenderness in her peaceful green eyes. She’d meant no harm. It’d been a gesture of affection.