She laughed at the memories he evoked. “Mine was good at it. Actually, I'm crazy about him. He's got six kids.” She smiled thoughtfully. And Bernie laughed. Another Catholic. His mother would be thrilled at the news. And suddenly the thought amused him. This was definitely not Mrs. Rosenthal's daughter, the model from Ohrbach's. But she was a doctor. His mother would have liked that, and so would his father. If that mattered. And then he reminded himself that this was only hot chocolate and coffee on a rainy afternoon in Napa.

“Is your brother Catholic?” Irish Catholics would explain her black hair, but she shook her head and laughed at the question.

“No. He's Episcopalian. He just loves kids. His wife says she wants twelve.” And Megan looked as though she envied them, and so did Bernie.

“I've always thought big families were wonderful,” he said as their hot drinks arrived. Hers covered with whipped cream and his coffee with steamed milk and nutmeg. He took a sip and glanced up at her, wondering who she was, where she had been, and if she had children of her own. He realized how little he knew of her. “You're not married, are you, Megan?” He didn't think she was anyway, but realized he didn't even know that for certain.

“Not much room for it, I'm afraid, with late night calls and eighteen-hour days.” Her work was what she loved best of all and it didn't really explain her single state. And suddenly she decided to be honest with him. Like Liz long before, she saw a man in him that she could be open and honest with, and talk straight to.

“I was engaged to someone a long time ago. He was a doctor too.” She smiled at Bernard and the openness he saw there caught him off guard like a physical blow. “After his residency, he was sent to Vietnam and killed just before I started my residency at UC.”

“How awful for you.” And he meant every word of it. He knew better than anyone the pain she must have gone through. But for her it had been a long time ago. She still missed Mark, but it wasn't the same anymore. It wasn't the same sharp pain Bernie was living with, barely more than a year after Liz had died. But he felt as though she understood him better now, and he felt a special kinship for her, which hadn't been there before.

“It was pretty rough. We'd already been engaged for four years, and he'd been waiting for me to graduate. He was at Harvard Med School when I was premed there. Anyway”— she averted her eyes and then looked back at him—“it was quite a blow, to say the least. I was going to take a year off and postpone my residency, but my parents talked me out of it. I even thought of giving up medicine completely, or going into research. I was pretty mixed up for a while. But my residency got me back on track again and then I came up here afterwards.” She smiled quietly at him, as though to tell him that one could survive a loss, however painful. “It's hard to believe it but it's been ten years since he died. I suppose I really haven't had time for anyone in my life since then.” She blushed and then laughed. “That's not to say I haven't gone out with anyone. But I've never gotten that serious with anyone again. Amazing, isn't it?” The fact that it had been ten years seemed remarkable to her. It seemed only yesterday since they'd left Boston together. She had gone to Stanford because of him, and she stayed out west afterwards because it was a way of staying closer to him. And now she couldn't imagine living in Boston again. “Sometimes I regret not getting married and having kids.” She smiled and took a sip of her hot chocolate as Bernie looked at her admiringly. “It's almost too late now, but I have my patients to fulfill those needs. All that nurturing and mothering they need.” She smiled but Bernie wasn't convinced that was enough for her.

“That can't be quite the same thing.” He spoke quietly, watching her, intrigued by all that he saw in her.

“No, it's not the same thing, but it's very satisfying in its own way. And the right man has never come along again. Most men can't handle a woman with a serious career. There's no point in crying over what can't be. You have to make the best of it.” He nodded. He was trying to, without Liz, but it was still so damn difficult for him, and he had finally found someone he could say that to, and who understood it.

“I feel that way about Liz …my wife … as though there will never again be anyone like her.” His eyes were so sincere that it made her ache for him.

“There probably won't be. But there could be someone else if you're open to it.”

He shook his head, feeling he had found a friend. “I'm not.” She was the first person he had been able to say that to, and it was a relief to him to say it.

“Neither was I. But eventually you feel better about things.”

“Then why didn't you marry someone else?” His words hit her like a fist and she looked at him seriously.

“I don't think I ever wanted to.” She was totally honest with him. “I thought we were a perfect match. And I never found that again. But you know what? I think I may have been wrong.” She had never admitted that to anyone, certainly not to her family. “I wanted someone who was just like him. And maybe someone different would have been just as good for me, if not better. Maybe the Right Man didn't have to be another pediatrician, just like me, who wanted a rural practice just like me. Maybe I could have married a lawyer or a carpenter or a schoolteacher and been just as happy and had six kids by now.” She looked at Bernie questioningly, and his voice was deep and gentle when he answered her.

“It's not too late, you know.”

She smiled and sat back in her chair again, feeling less intense, more relaxed, and happy to be talking to him. “I'm too set in my ways by now. An old maid to the core.”

“And proud of it,” he laughed, not believing her for a moment. “You know, what you said helps me. People have started pressuring me about going out, and I'm just not ready to do that.” It was a way of excusing himself to her for what he wanted and didn't want, all at once, and mostly didn't understand as he looked at her and felt things that stirred old memories for him, memories that confused him as he watched her.

“Don't let anyone else tell you what to do, Bernard. You'll know when it's the right time. And it'll be easier for the kids, if you know what you want. How long has it been?” She meant since Liz had died, but he could handle the question now.

“A little over a year.”

“Give yourself time.”

Their eyes met, and he looked at her searchingly. “And then what? What happens after that, when you never find the same thing again?”

“You grow to love someone else.” She reached out and touched his hand. She was the most giving woman he had met in a long, long time. “You have a right to that.”

“And you? Why didn't you have a right to that too?”

“Maybe I didn't want it …maybe I wasn't brave enough to find it again.” They were wise words, and they talked of other things then. Boston, New York, the house he was renting, the pediatrician she shared her practice with. He even told her about Nanny Pippin, and they chuckled over some of the adventures she'd had. It was a delightful afternoon and he was sorry when she said she had to go. She was driving to Calistoga to visit a friend for dinner that night and he was suddenly curious who it was, woman or man, friendship or romance. It reminded him of the things she'd said as he watched her drive off through the rain with a last wave at him …“Maybe I wasn't brave enough to find it again.” …He wondered if he ever would be himself as he started his car, and drove back to the house where Nanny and the children were waiting for him.





Chapter 37

Bernie's mind was occupied with other things when his secretary came in the following week and told him that there was a lady there to see him.

“A lady?” He looked surprised, and couldn't imagine who it was. “What lady?”

“I don't know.” His secretary looked as surprised as he did. Women did not generally come to see him, unless they were members of the press or wanted to plan fashion shows for the Junior League, or flew out from New York sent by Paul Berman. But in all of those instances, they had appointments, and this woman didn't. She was attractive in any case. His secretary had noticed that, but she didn't seem to fit into any of those categories. She didn't have the stereotyped look of the Junior League, with blond streaks in her hair, gold shrimp earrings she'd had for ten years, and shoes with little gold chains running across them. Nor did she have the look of the dowdy matron planning the charity event, or the sharklike air of the buyers from New York, or the press. She looked wholesome and clean, and yet well put together somehow, even though her clothes were neither exciting nor overly stylish. She was wearing a navy blue suit and a beige silk blouse, pearl earrings and high-heeled navy blue shoes. And she had very good legs, although she was tall. Almost as tall as Bernie.

He sat staring at his secretary then, unable to understand why she could not provide more information. “Did you ask her who she was?” The woman was generally not stupid, but she looked flustered this time.

“She just said she came to buy bread. … I told her this was the wrong department, Mr. Fine, that these were the executive offices, but she insisted that you told her …” And then suddenly, with a crack of laughter he was out of his chair, and walked to the door himself as the secretary watched him. He pulled it open, and there she was. Megan Jones, looking very chic, and not at all like a doctor. The white coat and jeans had disappeared, and she was smiling at him mischievously as he grinned at her from the doorway.