Holiday Kisses. Gwynne ForsterЧитать онлайн книгу.
I’ve got nine months to go.”
“All right. I want you to succeed at whatever you undertake, but this is my dream. I want to see you successful and happy, but, well, I’m between a rock and a hard place.”
“I’m beginning to think I’d make a lousy lawyer, Dad. The more I work as a journalist, the more I love it.”
“You got your law degree with distinction and passed the bar on the first try.”
“But I got my journalism degree at the top of the class. Look, Dad. If I don’t have a network-level program in nine months, I’ll join you. I’ll be as miserable as a wet puppy in freezing temperatures, but I’ll keep my word. But you know I have no intention of failing at this.”
He told his father goodbye and hung up. He didn’t blame his dad. By not joining the family firm he was breaking a tradition that had begun with his great-grandfather. He looked at his watch. She’d said an hour, but he still couldn’t feel a thing on that side of his face. Hunger pangs reminded him that he hadn’t eaten any solid food since the previous evening.
Thinking about what he could eat that didn’t require chewing, he went down and got a container of milk and a muffin from the snack shop. He soaked the muffin in the milk and managed to make it slide down his throat. Then, he busied himself editing the five o’clock news.
That doctor had a tender, caring touch. “I wonder what her first name is,” he said aloud, as he got his suit jacket and found the card that the receptionist gave him. “Kisha.” He pronounced it several times. She was a looker. And sweet, too. “I can’t believe I left that woman and didn’t even ask her for a date,” he said to himself. “I must be getting old.” He realized that the effects of the Novocain had finally worn off entirely when he felt a dull ache. A glance at his watch told him that he had an hour and forty minutes before news time. He closed his computer, locked his desk and headed for the restaurant at the end of the block.
Kisha couldn’t get Craig out of her mind and, for the remainder of the day, she thought of various reasons to call him. That night, she slept fitfully with intermittent dreams of Craig Jackson and the way his long-lashed, dreamy eyes teased her. She tossed in bed until her shoulder ached and awakened the next morning, sleepy, groggy and with an aching head. For the first time since she opened her practice, she arrived late to work. Her first patient needed front caps for cosmetic purposes, and after taking X rays and measurements, she got down to the business of making a forty-five-year-old man who should never smile look like Prince Charming. She attached the temporary caps and went to lunch, but not even a good crab salad improved her mood.
When she returned to work, she pulled Craig’s file, wrote his phone number in her address book, went into her office and closed the door. Using her private line, she dialed Craig Jackson’s phone number.
“Mr. Jackson, This is Kisha Moran. How are you feeling?”
She wondered at his silence. “Uh…thanks for calling. I guess I feel like a guy who just lost the inside of a tooth.”
She didn’t know what to make of that comment. “I’m not sure I know what that means. Does it hurt? I mean are you having any discomfort? You had very extensive surgery yesterday. I’d like to know how you’re getting along.”
Craig’s antenna shot up. She didn’t call him to ask how his tooth was. A dentist would expect him to call if he had a problem. He suspected that she was exceptional, but her modus operandi couldn’t be that different from the ways of other dentists.
“Did you have any discomfort after the Novocain wore off?”
He didn’t want to believe that Kisha Moran was just like all the other women who chased him, but he was taking no chances. “My tooth is fine, Doctor Moran. If it bothers me, you’ll be the first person to know, and you can trust me on that. Thanks,” he added, wanting to terminate the conversation with a measure of civility.
A minute of guilt plagued Craig for having treated Kisha to a brush-off. He resented women who assumed that he was available for their enjoyment, a dressed-up television turkey for their gourmet meal. He didn’t want to believe that Kisha was that type. He was as human as the man who worked in overalls, wore a hard hat, dug ditches or drove a bus. He had wants, needs, hopes and dreams just as they did. He worked in front of the TV camera, but when the cameraman put it aside, he turned off the smiles and the charm. His private life was his own, and he didn’t mix his personal affairs with his public persona.
Taken aback by what she regarded as a put-down, Kisha busied herself developing fliers to post in the neighborhood and at the university to attract patients. She hoped to have as much of her clientele as possible from the neighborhood in which her office was located. Days passed, and she made no progress in her efforts to forget about Craig. So it stunned her to receive a call from a member of the WWRM Channel 6 TV news staff telling her that she had been chosen citizen of the week and asking if she would come in for an interview.
“Thank you for the honor,” she said, “but I can’t imagine what I’ve done to earn it.”
“Citizen Of The Week is our regular Friday news feature,” the man said. “We chose you, because you’re offering free care to indigent children one afternoon each week. That’s a noble thing to do.”
“I never realized that it would be newsworthy. I only want to help the children. Thank you. I’m delighted to accept.”
“Great! We’ll send a car for you. Please be ready Friday at two-thirty.”
Onstage and on camera, Craig looked at the name of his guest and nearly swallowed his tongue. Kisha Moran was his citizen of the week. He read the notes that his staff had prepared for his interview and put them aside. That gibberish would never reveal Kisha Moran’s warm and feminine personality. He made a few notes for the interview and, surprisingly, looked forward to seeing her again.
Decked out in a feminine yet tailored red suit with black accessories and her hair around her shoulders, Kisha Moran was stunning. He did a double take as she walked toward him, but he had the presence of mind to stand and take a few steps to meet her as she crossed the small stage. None of the entertainment community’s habit of kissing any and everybody for her, he noted. She extended her hand for a cool and very businesslike handshake.
“How do you do, Mr. Jackson. Thank you for this wonderful honor.”
Both of his eyebrows shot up. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Moran. Do you treat any child whose parents demonstrate an inability to pay?”
She leaned slightly forward. “Absolutely. I’ll only do it once a week, but I’ll treat all children under age fourteen that I can fit in on Thursdays between twelve and five-thirty.”
“That’s remarkable. I don’t know of another private citizen who’s made such a gesture. Was this among your plans while you studied dentistry?” He held his breath, hoping that he’d given her a question that would enable her to open up and reveal herself to the viewers.
“Not specifically. But I spent a lot of thought on the most effective way that I could give something to the community in which I earn my livelihood. I had wanted to spend one afternoon a week at a senior citizen center, but I couldn’t make the necessary connections. I suppose I wanted results too quickly.”
“I imagine you’ll have more than you can handle on Thursday afternoons.”
“Treatment is by appointment. I require that the children get follow-up exams. All patients should have follow-up care. Dental surgery is surgery. Just because a doctor doesn’t use a scalpel doesn’t mean that aftercare isn’t essential,” she said, looking him in the eye with a cool and impersonal expression on her face.
After they talked for fourteen of the allotted fifteen minutes, he stood and presented her with the plaque. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I’m honored to have been chosen for this award.” She extended her hand for a shake. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,