Amber's Embrace (5 page)

The easy laugh was shared. “I know, hon, but I wish you were going to be over here. Then I’d be able to meet you for lunch and all.”

“Lunch? You mean, pediatric residents actually eat lunch?”

“Okay, okay. So we steal from the kids’ trays when their backs are turned. But I do wish you were here.”

Amber eased down into a chair, feeling herself begin to relax. “You’ve got Peter there. You don’t need me for a luncheon rendezvous!”

At Corey’s full guffaw, Amber conjured up the image of the stunning redhead dressed in white, attracting every eye around. “Peter’s my husband! I see him for breakfast and dinner; why ever should I want to see him for lunch?”

“Uh-uh, you can’t fool me, Corey. You adore the man—confess it!” Her voice had lowered with the dare.

The silence on the line was broken only by a tremulous hum of feigned debate. “Ach, I guess you’re right. I do adore him. But you didn’t answer my question.” She deliberately shifted the crux of the discussion away from her own happiness. “When do you start work at the hospital?”

“Next Monday. Should be interesting.”

“I’ll say. But, listen, kid”—Corey’s teasing held a note of reproof—”will you do me a favor and keep your eyes
open?
”

“Open? What are you talking about?”

“Just be on the lookout, all right?”

“For what?” Amber shrieked in amusement.

“
Men,
you dummy! Ugh, what am I going to do with you? You are impossible! There are some gorgeous doctors over there, even if they
are
at the wrong hospital!” Her voice held the singsong lure, despite its competitive edge.

But Amber would have no part of it. “Corey, you know I’m not interested.”

“That’s what you say now, but just keep an eye out, okay?”

“I certainly will not!” Her refusal was as exaggerated, in good fun, as the entire tone of the conversation. Corey was doing her best to divert her friend’s mind, for a few moments at least, from the absence of her son. Recognizing this, Amber humored her by playing along. “I’ve sworn off men. For good! That’s it!” Her shoulder cradled the receiver as her hands made the sweeping gesture that her words conveyed.

Corey wasn’t to be put off as easily. “Look, I met this terrific guy a few weeks ago. You’d like him.”

“No!”

“He’s good-looking and brilliant.”

“No!”

“Not even for dinner at our place? The men could always talk shop while we eat. Come on … what do you say?”

“No!”

Recognizing defeat, the redheaded pediatrician sighed. “You’re a lost cause … but”—she perked up a final time—”you haven’t heard the last from me, Amber. You’ve got the whole summer of free evenings, and I’ll get you out at least once if it kills me!”

“It might.” Amber grinned smugly, delighted at her own firmness.

A soft chuckle filtered over the line. “No pink flowers on my grave, then. They clash with my hair. Got that?”

“Got it! Oh, Corey—?”

“Yeeeeees…?”

“Lunch at your cafeteria one day soon, just the two of us?”

“You’re on. Talk with you later!”

The hand that replaced the receiver on its cradle was more steady than Amber had felt all day. She had much to be grateful for in this fine and loyal friend. And it
would
be fun to meet Corey for lunch. Actually, as she looked to the bright side, there were many things that would be fun to do this summer in New England. Perhaps … next week …

Idly, she stood and wandered through the empty house. Even after three years here, its charm was as strong as the first day she had seen it. Old and rather run-down, the price had been right, mortgage and all. Many of the repairs were things that she and Scott had been able to do together; others she had simply hired a local carpenter or plumber to do. All in all, the house was comfortable, roomy, and private, bounded on all sides by a miniforest of oaks and maples and pines, accessible only on the long paved drive that wound from the street. Though many of the neighboring homes had stables, the only riding she and Scott had gone in for was atop bicycles. Smiling to herself, she anticipated Scott’s excitement when she presented him with his first ten-speed in August, when he returned home. Then they would
really
be able to do the long-distance biking they had always discussed so eagerly. The very thought of it brought waves of excitement to her, followed by swells of loneliness as she realized that it would be eight weeks before he did return.

The enthusiasm with which she fixed herself dinner was pitiful, second only to the interest she felt in the finished product. After picking and shoving the food around on her plate for a few minutes, she gave up all pretense of hunger, cleaning up the works and retreating to her study.

In a top corner of the second floor of the house, the room was her sanctuary. Lined with wall-to-wall bookshelves, her desk and its chair were its only pieces of furniture. The lighting was indirect and warm, though totally unnecessary now, with the evening sun streaming in through multipaned windows on both exposures. The article on Little League baseball—that was top on the agenda. Gathering the group of index cards on which she had already made preliminary notes, she shuffled them, sorted through, then rearranged them again. Pencil in hand, she put several fresh cards before her on the wooden surface. Her teeth bit into the pink eraser end, her eye wandered out the window. One bare foot traced the leg of the swivel chair. A shaped fingernail drummed softly on the pile of cards.

It seemed futile. All thoughts brought the image of Scott to mind—Scott, flying by himself in that huge plane, having probably arrived by now on the West Coast, being reunited with his father. Aimlessly, her thoughts turned to Ron. They had thought themselves so very much in love. High school sweethearts, classmates, best friends—it had been Ron and Amber for as long as she could remember. But they were so young, so idealistic, so headstrong in their love. Both sets of parents had fought their plans to marry, so they eloped. Both sets of parents had told them to wait, but they had Scott. Then, both sets of parents stood helplessly by as the marriage fell apart, distraught yet supportive, and helpless all the same.

Amber thought of her parents, living in the same house in Maryland in which she had been raised. To this day they were supportive, despite their original opposition to her marriage. Yet, somehow, in light of the last, Amber had not been able to return there to settle with her son, following the dismal years in Santa Barbara with Ron. The defeat would have been an even more humiliating one, particularly when word got around—as it would inevitably have—about the reason for the divorce.

Disgusted with herself for the rehashing of this past torment, Amber threw down her pencil, bolted from the chair, and abandoned her project for a more amenable time. Sudden impatience with the silence drove her into Scott’s room, where she snapped on his tape recorder and began to clean his closet. The identity of the music did not matter; habit told her it would be the works of either Blondie, the Cars, or the Who—any of which were loud enough and sufficiently senseless to drown out her depression. It was a yearly happening, this total room-cleaning once Scott had left. Usually spaced over the few days following his departure, her ministrations were thorough and merciless. The closet, containing toys, games, puzzles, comic books, old sneakers plus his wardrobe, bore the brunt of her frustration, as she threw out anything and everything that was too old, too worn, or simply too young for the more mature boy who would return at summer’s end. That boy would hopefully have forgotten the detailed contents of his closet such that the pruning would be practically painless. Yet, for Amber this time around, the process of the pruning, itself, was far from painless. As she had done in her study, she discarded the project with a moan of disgust.

Restlessness haunted her as she roamed the house, unable to settle down to one of those tasks which was supposedly to fill her time this summer. Why the loneliness, the hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach, should be that much worse this year was a mystery to her. Yet it thwarted her every attempt at diversion.

On impulse, she headed for the garage behind the house, drawing out her new ten-speed and checking the wheels for air before hopping on it and pedaling down the drive toward the street. This type of exercise she had always enjoyed—hence, she had treated herself to a new bicycle on her last birthday. A quiet community such as Dover, relatively even in elevation with inclines well-spaced and gentle, was ideal for biking. In the past, she had admired the steady pace of the regulars who passed by her drive; now she might think to join their ranks. And, if she expected to keep up with her son at the end of the summer, she reasoned, it behooved her to work on endurance before he returned.

With yet an hour until sunset, there was plenty of light and a minimum of traffic on the roads through Dover. The last of the azaleas and rhododendron still splotched the roadside with great dabs of color, of pinks and purples, in harmony with the delicate white of the mountain laurel. The scent was pure country and divine. A gentle breeze played through the canopy of trees above, its soft tongue licked her skin much as a loving pet whose playmate was, for some mysterious reason, below par. Determinedly, she built up, then maintained, a rugged pace, feeling at odds with the leisure of the countryside, yet needful of expending the nervous energy. Ever so gradually, her tension began to dissipate, caught up then scattered by the peacefulness all about. The blond silk of her hair, drawn up on either side into a firm-clasped barrette, streamed out behind as she rode. The whites of her sneakers cast their ever-rotating contrast against the darkened hue of the pavement. Long shadows fell across her path, creating visual tracks for her to follow.

Her narrow tires easily spanned the bridge over the Charles River, the very same ribbon of life that wound its slow and steady way into Boston and, at last, to the sea. Here in Dover, the water was clear and sparkling in the late day’s sun. Ferns bowed along its banks much as did the young boy and his fishing pole further on down the shore. The rusticity of the setting added to its peace, bringing a glimmering smile to Amber’s lips as she moved smoothly by.

Dover streets merged with Needham ones, which quickly and with verdant grace yielded to those of Wellesley. Five miles from home, now, Amber pedaled on, intent on total exhaustion and nothing less. The muscles of her thighs rippled gently as they moved up and down in rhythmic succession. Periodically, she straightened and flexed the firm line of her back, though never once significantly altering the pace. There was a freedom she felt, riding now with the wind in her hair, brushing her cheeks, buffeting her body. In a momentary surge, she was without a care in the world, a soft white dove, soaring high and free. Legs in constant motion, she whizzed on.

The stores of the center were open, attracting a lazy crawl of summer shoppers with its evening temptation. The faces were plain and honest, intelligent and old-world. Appreciative of their silent dignity, she pedaled on, toward the college grounds. As a large brown and gold sign signaled her arrival at the Wellesley College campus, Amber turned her bicycle onto its narrow paths, following the gentle undulation of the concrete deeper into the fountain of academia. Summer sessions had begun, scattering students over rolling lawns, before buildings, and on the shore of the small pond which shone gemlike in a miniature valley. It was here that she finally paused to rest.

Dismounting and lowering her kickstand, she sank onto the soft grass overlooking the pond. The all-encompassing serenity of the scene conspired with her weary muscles to entrance her. The sight of a young couple, arms enmeshed, feet dabbling at the edge of the water, turned her thoughts to those carefree days, just after she and Ron had married. They were students then, freshmen classmates at Stanford. Assuming themselves in love, they sat much as this couple did now, basking in the glow of their mutual attraction. What had really happened in the years to follow? she asked herself in bewilderment. More critically,
why
had it happened? Haunted by the same nagging fear, she found herself no closer to an acceptable answer now, four eventful years later. Disconcerted, she turned her head in escape toward the opposite bank of the pond. Inexplicably, her breath caught.

There, beside a late-flowering dogwood, stood a man. Tall and lean, decidedly rugged in contrast to the more delicate pink blossoms nearby, he returned her gaze unerringly over the distance of the water. Helmet in hand, his own bicycle rested not far from him. Dark glasses hid his eyes, a white headband held sweat-dampened locks of near-black hair from his forehead. His stance bespoke the same confidence she had seen that very morning in one Zachary Wilder. Instantly, her mind honed in on an image of him. It would certainly be too much of a coincidence to find him here—or would it? This was a well-traveled path, a bicycle path by description on the nearby posted sign. Indeed, her periphery took in a random smattering of other bikers. Yet this one held her gaze unremittingly. There was that same intensity about him, one which plunged into her very soul. It was hard to ignore.

Subconsciously chewing on the softness of her lower lip, she remained otherwise frozen. Did he come here often? Was it possible that, had she ventured out biking on other occasions, she would have encountered him before? Dover was a small town, as were, relatively, Needham and Wellesley. Was this his standard route?

If, indeed, the cyclist across the pond was Zachary, was he here for pure pleasure—or to combat a restlessness of his own? In the instant, she ruled out that probability. Certainly a man like Zachary Wilder was above such simplicity. Certainly, even after her own refusal of his company, he would have any number of women to choose from—women who would flock to his side on a moment’s notice. But then, she mused, there was no real proof that this
was
the handsome doctor. And, if it were he, he made no sign of recognizing her.

Drawn compellingly by the dark figure dressed in white shorts, shirt, and sneakers, she sat for long moments without so much as a breath to dilute the potency of the visual exchange. If it were he, what was he doing here? If it were not, then what form of man held her so mesmerized? Fear of the silent force sent a shudder through her. In the end, it was the encroaching dusk that forced her to her feet and back onto her bicycle, sheer determination which kept her from looking back as she retraced her route off the campus and back through the streets toward Dover.