I've never stopped long enough to think about it." She looked into Wynter's eyes. "How about you?"

"I'm pretty happy with where things are right at this minute."

Wynter smiled. Standing in Pearce's kitchen with the smell of cocoa in the air, she realized just exactly how much she meant that.


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Oh, God," Wynter murmured, stretching her stocking feet toward the fireplace. "If I stay a minute longer, I'm not going to be able to get up and go home."

Pearce turned her head lazily on the sofa, her heavy white mug of hot chocolate balanced on her knee. She had forgotten to drink it as they had talked about medical school and Wynter's residency at Yale, sharing the many experiences they had in common. They had not mentioned Wynter's ex-husband again, although Wynter spoke often and freely about Ronnie. Pearce found she could easily discount the shadow of a husband if she didn't think about it too hard. She could sometimes even forget that Wynter was very likely to have another husband before very long. She was too beautiful and bright and dynamic to be without a partner. But those were thoughts for lonely nights when she stared into the fireplace and saw only dying embers, not the promise of light and warmth. Tonight, Wynter was beside her, and nothing had ever felt quite so right. "I'll walk you home."

"I believe I see a pattern forming here." Wynter tipped her cup and drank the last of the bittersweet chocolate. "No. We already established that you shouldn't be wandering around by yourself."

"I'm fine now. The Valium has worn off, and"--she held up her hand--"this feels a lot better."

"What are you going to do if you have to operate tomorrow?"

Wynter tucked her feet up under her on the sofa and studied Pearce, who lounged a foot away on the opposite end, her head tipped back against the sofa, her back relaxed into the curve of the cushions, her legs splayed. So comfortable in her own body. So apparently unaware of how beautiful she was.

"I'm backup call. Hopefully it will be quiet. If not, I'll get a glove on somehow and fake it with my good hand. I'd only need to scrub to second assist anyhow."

"Pearce," Wynter said with real worry. "It will kill you to scrub with those open wounds. Your hand will be a bloody mess before you're done."

"I'll use one of the scrubless chemical disinfectants." She grinned at Wynter's groan. "Okay, so it'll still sting like a mother, but I won't tear anything open with a brush. I'll survive. Besides, chances are I'll get a few phone calls during the day and nothing else, so I won't even need to go in. How 'bout you? What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"You know that you're an expert at changing the subject?"

Pearce frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Wynter leaned toward her and rested her fingertips on Pearce's knee. She tapped for emphasis as she spoke. "Whenever we talk about you, if it gets the least bit confrontational, you change the subject. Or if we're sharing secrets, you manage to turn everything back on me. You know more about me than my mother at this point. And I don't know anything about you."

"Okay," Pearce said with a hint of challenge in her voice. "Ask me something."

"It doesn't work that way," Wynter said in exasperation. "It's not about twenty questions. It's about...it's about..." She stopped, uncertain what it was about. She'd never been bothered when her other friends had been overly private. She'd never wanted to know everything about one of them. What made them happy. What made them sad. What they dreamed about. She had no idea why it annoyed her that Pearce would not easily disclose those things to her. "Never mind."

"You know things about me too," Pearce said quietly. "Secret things."

"Really? What?"

Pearce tapped the back of Wynter's hand where it now rested on her thigh. "You know about my secret room. You know about the hot chocolate. You know about..." She searched her mind frantically and then looked into Wynter's inquisitive eyes, knowing that she had told Wynter her story in fragments over dinner the night Wynter had arrived, in the abandoned residents' lounge, in the operating room as they teased and bantered, and this evening, as they talked in desultory tones about growing up with the knowledge they would always be doctors, and nothing else. "You know that I am everything my family expected me to be...except a son."

Wynter's lips parted in stunned surprise. "You can't mean that."

"You've seen him with me. I'm the only heir." She tried to put words to what she had always known but never wanted to face. From the time he had first taken her with him on rounds, she had understood that that place--those buildings, those people, that world--was her destiny. She would be what he expected, because that's why she had been born. "I'm his legacy. That's what he sees when he looks at me."

"Are you doing what you want to do with your life?"

"I don't know. I never had any reason to think about it." Pearce rolled her shoulders and forced a smile. "It doesn't matter now. It works for me."

Wynter didn't question that statement. It wasn't her place to second-guess what made Pearce happy. "What are your plans? After you finish?"

Pearce watched the flames lick at the center of a thick log, destroying it from the heart out, weakening it until only a shell remained around a crumbling black core. "I'll do a vascular or CT fellowship somewhere, then move into an academic position. I'll earn my stripes, and eventually I'll come back here. And I'll take my father's place."

"Is that what he did?"

"No, he's always been here. But there won't be room for me here for a while. Things have changed enough that he won't be able to push for me to succeed him unless I've got the credentials to support it. To do that, I'll have to break ground elsewhere."

"There aren't very many female chairs of surgery," Wynter said, stating what they both knew. It was still very rare for a woman to head the most powerful division in the hospital hierarchy, and the competition for the coveted position was fierce. Pearce would have to devote every waking moment for years before she might obtain the reluctant respect and support of her colleagues.

Pearce grinned, a hard, feral grin. "None of it's a cakewalk, is it?"

"No," Wynter admitted, thinking that there were easier paths to take. Paths that would allow Pearce some kind of life, some kind of happiness. "Is it what you want?"

"Sure." Abruptly, Pearce stood. "I'll walk you halfway home."

"I want to check your hand tomorrow. Remember that you agreed if it wasn't better you'd get an X-ray."

"If it's not better, I'll--"

"No. No deals."

Pearce started to protest, then sighed. "Okay. Come by whenever you're free. I don't have any plans."

"All right," Wynter said, watching as the large log split in half.

The pieces dropped to either side of the dancing ring of flames and lay smoldering alone on the edges of the fire. The blaze was so beautiful as it consumed itself. And so sad.

v "And then the Little Prince..." Wynter carefully closed the book and leaned over her sleeping daughter to rest it on the windowsill.

Ronnie lay curled up against her side, sleeping the dreamless sleep of the innocents. She'd awakened when Wynter had kissed her upon returning home, and had insisted on a story. Wynter leaned down and kissed her forehead once more, then eased out from under the covers and tucked her child in securely. A Mickey Mouse night-light by the bed guided her through the small room to the door that connected to hers. She left Ronnie's door slightly ajar and turned on the standing lamp just inside her own bedroom.

With a sigh, she contemplated her empty double bed and the prospect of reading until she fell asleep. That usually took under five minutes. Tonight, however, she was restless and had a feeling that it would take more than a few chapters of Elizabeth George to wash away the residual tensions of the day. The move, Pearce's accident, the storm of emotions that her conversation with Pearce about her marriage had brought up for her had left her feeling wired.

A glass of wine might help.

As she passed Ken and Mina's bedroom, she saw that the door was open. Mina always slept with the door open when Ken was on call, as if to maintain contact with the other sleeping members of the house when the bed beside her was empty. The blue-gray light of the television seeped into the hallway. The sound was muted, but she could hear laughter. Probably Letterman. She tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open an inch. "Mina?"

"You're up late," Mina called.

"It's only midnight."

"And you're usually asleep before dinner's over. Come on in."

"I was going to get some wine. Can I bring you anything?"

"Popcorn. Make it two bags. And a Dr Pepper."

"Coming right up."

Ten minutes later, Wynter returned with a tray laden with snacks and drinks and a bottle of wine under one arm. "I'm going to miss this when I'm living next door."

"Well, you're not going to be over there for at least a week until we get you unpacked and settled. And then you're only going to be next door, which means we can still have slumber parties." Mina patted the bed beside her. "Come get under the covers and bring all that good stuff with you."

Wynter set the tray down on the bedside table, put the bottle on the floor, and dug through the closet where she knew Mina kept the extra pillows. She grabbed one, then returned to the bed and kicked off the moccasins she wore around the house. She tossed the pillow onto Ken's side of the bed, placed the tray carefully in the center, and climbed under the down comforter. With a sigh, she poured a glass of wine, balanced the wineglass on her stomach, and leaned back into the pillows. "I feel guilty about being happy that Ken's not here tonight."