February 23rd
The restaurant where the team has decided to hold the get-together is nothing like the bland, stuffy dive Greg had expected: first off, it's in Philadelphia. And it's actually something of an Old City hot spot, with a bar to dispense the driest of martinis, along with an impressive array of whiskeys, small-label liquors and organic sulfite-free wines. The dinner menu is simple, a hipster's wet dream; there's a choice of several entrees and sides made to order from local produce and meats, along with simple desserts and fair-trade coffee and chocolate. There's even a live band, a harp and violin with accordion and penny whistle, and they play lively modern Celtic folk. All in all, very chi-chi.
And yet he'd rather be home—so it's really home now, he thinks in fearful amazement—in Sarah's kitchen with Cailleach or the Chieftains on the player, and herself to sing along while she kneads bread, as snow falls soft and slow outside . . . or in his own home, with his wife curled up asleep next to him on the couch while he watches basketball or some stupid old action flick from ages past . . . He drags his attention back to the present and focuses with some difficulty.
Conclusion: this is someone's attempt to impress him. Most likely not Cuddy; that would leave Foreman. It's a good measure of how insecure the other man must feel. For just this once however, Greg doesn't give in to the urge to mock his former fellow. Maybe it's because the case was resolved successfully and he can get the hell out of Princeton in the morning. More likely however, he just can't be bothered. He doesn't want to think about why that is—he'll discuss it with his shrink eventually, of that there's no doubt. So instead he sits back with his three-olive martini, ordered in defiance of the omnipresent glasses of wine, and watches his wife.
Roz looks great. In the mellow lamplight her angular features are softened into near-beauty, her thick dark hair ruffled a bit, the greeny-black silk sweater gleaming and lustrous against her golden skin. Her epiphany earrings spark and swing as she talks to Taub, says something to make him chuckle. They've hit it off, probably because they know each other from Taub's stay in New York during the scar removal. Still, they do share a similar dry sense of humor, appreciative of the absurd nature of life. Greg is fairly certain they've also connected because Taub doesn't find Roz attractive, therefore he's able to view her as something other than a quick, furtive fuck. That's a good thing for the Large-Nosed One. Greg really would prefer not to have to pound him into a sticky pile of pulp.
"Thinking deep thoughts?" Cuddy perches next to him, white wine in hand. She looks nice this evening. He's noticed that she's gained a pound or two, but it looks good on her, not that he'd ever say so. For all his teasing about her ginormous ass he'd always thought she was a little too thin, no doubt from all the wear and tear of his actions, along with the administration of a busy teaching hospital. She wears red tonight—an unusual color choice, but it highlights her dark beauty. Still, he doesn't get that she's coming on to him. Maybe that lunch with Roz was more beneficial than he'd realized.
"Nope," he says, and sips his martini. Cuddy turns her head and sees Roz. After a moment she smiles just a little.
"I won't make the mistake of saying she's good for you," she says in that wry tone he knows so well. "What I will say is she's more than you deserve. I hope you know that."
"Yup." He pops an olive, enjoys the savory taste as it highlights the clean, ultra-dry bitterness of the vermouth. "Get on Foreman to find another case, or he'll use this one to goof off for at least a week."
"Already done." Cuddy sits back a bit. "I do work with him on a daily basis."
"He bamboozled you into having this shindig in Philly. I'd say his powers of persuasion are greater than yours."
She raises her brows. "Actually I chose this venue myself, believe it or not. One of our younger donors recommended it." Ah, so she shmoozed a human ATM. Well, there are worse reasons to select a place to hang out. Greg munches the olive and says nothing. "House, come on. I take a contributor's advice now and then," she says. Greg levels a look at her.
"Bet he owns the place."
She has the grace to blush.
Eventually she goes off to talk to someone else, and he's alone. But not for long. Roz comes to sit next to him. She has a craft beer, some micro-brew that sounds pretty good if the label is anything to go by.
"How about some dinner?" she says with a slight smile. "Steak and fries?"
"I say we leave this gig and eat, starting with each other," he says with a leer, just to watch her eyes widen and her pupils dilate. She doesn't disappoint. Then she leans forward and brushes a soft kiss over his lips, in full view of everyone there.
"Anticipation, amante," she whispers. "Dinner first."
He deepens the kiss just to see what she'll do, whether she'll resist or pull back because they're in public. Without hesitation she follows his lead and strokes his tongue with hers, and leaves him in no doubt that she wants him and doesn't care who knows it; she tastes of hops and herself, a spicy combination. Her hand comes up to caress his cheek. When they're finished Greg sees Foreman look away quickly, but it's still possible to glimpse the disbelief in the other man's gaze. Then Roz fills his vision, her face close to his for a moment. He sees love there, and amusement. She knows exactly what he's up to, and she's willing to participate. A soft chuckle escapes him. She quirks her lips, a wicked little smirk, and sits back a bit to sip her beer.
So they have steak—his is a thick ribeye grilled to perfection, hers a hanger cut, thin-sliced in a salad with fresh micro-greens and a delicious avocado dressing—and a big plate of frites, still so hot they sizzle with duck fat, shared between them. It's excellent, and he gets the added benefit to watch his wife enjoy a good meal she didn't cook herself. Everyone else is there now with them, and there's talk and gossip and laughter—the same thing that always goes on at gatherings like this. And yet things are different: while he's still on the outside, it doesn't hurt anymore because he's got his own clique, a party of two, and he's happy to be in it.
"One of your tribe is missing tonight," he says to Foreman. "The mousy one. Masters." She'd taken one look at him, uttered a faint, horrified squeak and done her best to stay out of his way, which of course meant he'd had to drag her into the center of things as often as possible. Actually he'd been surprised at her ability to cope—she was smart enough, but a tendency to moralize and doubt in her own intelligence limited her results.
"She generally doesn't participate in anything outside work," Foreman says, in a tone that indicates he's not heartbroken over the situation. "As long as she does her job, that's good enough for me."
"Antisocial," Greg says. "There's hope for her yet."
"She's not you," Foreman says. "But she's got the knack for working a differential. At least when she's not intimidated by the doctor who created the department in the first place." He catches Greg's sardonic look. "Hey, even you didn't bat a thousand."
"Blasphemer." Greg steals a fry and munches it. "Bet you love those morning coffee sessions with Cuddy."
"They were more interesting when Wilson was here," Foreman says. His honesty is something of a surprise.
"No one gets hot, juicy gossip faster than the Panty Peeler of Princeton-Plainsboro," Greg says, and takes another fry. "Cuddy still serving cheap joe?"
Foreman chuckles. "I can drink Sumatran fair trade in my own office," he says, and sits back. His silk suit gleams in the tastefully subdued light. "How's it going in New York?"
"Got 'em lined up," Greg says in absolute truth. "We could probably expand to twenty beds and it wouldn't be enough."
"So why don't you?" Foreman watches him, clearly baffled. "You'd make a fortune and help far more people than you do now. Win-win for everyone."
"Factory diagnosis," Greg says, as if he mulls it over. "Slappin' 'em out like burgers at McDonald's. There's a thought."
"You'd still be working case by case. Don't tell me you haven't considered it. You've got Chase. And I've heard Reynard is on your team for consults." Foreman leans back a bit. "You could easily bring in plenty of students. I'm sure you get a stack of resumes every day." He hesitates. "We're thinking about expanding here. Not only would it generate income, it would offer more opportunities for residents to observe and learn."
Greg doesn't bother to tell Foreman he's got a protégé, someone who presumably will follow in his footsteps. Chase is the interim successor, but Greg's student will be the one to take the clinic to greater heights, more than likely. The kid doesn't know it yet, but he's got the ambition, the brains and the willpower to make it happen. "It's not about the money, or the number of patients," he says. I'm not surprised you haven't figured that out, his tone implies. The faint good humor in Foreman's expression fades. Now his disapproval is clear.
"So they're still just a puzzle to you, a way to pass the time." He shakes his head. "I hoped maybe with a change in environment and some help from your analyst you'd be able to see them as people. You got off the Vicodin, or at least that's what you're telling us. Too bad the rest didn't happen."
"You don't see them as people either, so don't bother to castigate me for being truthful." Greg fights an urge to stand up, yank down his jeans and reveal Thigh 2.0. Instead he sips his martini—third one of the night, and just as beautifully dry and balanced as the first—and shuts up. After a moment Foreman gets to his feet.
"Against my better judgment, your consult privileges with us stand," he says, and heads off to the bar. Greg watches him go, prey to a mixture of emotions, none of them to his liking.
"That's gratitude for you," he says under his breath, and finishes off his drink. He's about to get another one when he's prevented from doing so.
"Hey," Roz says. She drops into the chair next to his. "Are we done here? Please say yes."
He looks at her. She looks back, her gaze steady and bright. "As a matter of fact we are," he says. "Let's go."
She drives, since she had just the one beer and it was a while ago; he gives her occasional instructions, listens to Springsteen's Born To Run album in honor of the occasion, and watches the Philly skyline gradually disappear in the rear view mirror as 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out' and 'Night' and 'Backstreets' plays. They travel up I-95 from Old City to Fishtown, Kensington and Port Richmond-bad neighborhoods in the midst of intense, violent gentrification battles-and across the Betsy Ross Bridge into New Jersey, on the north side of Cherry Hill and Mount Laurel. They move through Burlington Township and Bordentown and White Horse, past the cesspool of Trenton, into Mercer County and Laurence Township, and finally Princeton Borough, the place that passes for home sweet home, at least tonight.
The loft actually looks cozy in the soft lamplight. Roz puts the keys in his pea-coat pocket and dumps her own coat on the sofa, rolls her shoulders and stretches a little. Greg understands then that this has been something of an ordeal for her, though she hasn't said anything. He's about to say so to her when his phone rings. It's Chase.
"Tests confirm our patient has AS," he says. "We'll talk with the patient's family in the morning." He hesitates. "How's it going? How's everyone?"
"They still all hate you. We'll talk tomorrow when I'm back," Greg says, and hangs up on Chase's reluctant chuckle. He shuts off the phone and unbuttons his coat, tosses it on top of Roz's. The phone follows.
"You should charge it," Roz calls from the kitchen.
"What, the coat? Don't think it works that way."
"Ha ha." She emerges to stand in the doorway. "You know if you don't charge the phone and you miss a call, you'll be pissed off."
He mock-glares at her. "Think you're so smart."
"I know I'm so smart." She gives him a bump-and-grind, her way of teasing him when she thinks she's right about something. He grabs the phone and goes into the bedroom, stuffs the stupid thing into the charger, and turns to find Roz right behind him. She doesn't even bother to say anything, just wraps her arms around him and gives him a kiss that makes him hard so fast he groans into her mouth. She breaks off and laughs softly; her hands slide up to his neck, so her strong, slender fingers can play with his hair.
with her killer graces
and her secret places
that no boy can fill
with her hands on her hips
oh, and that smile on her lips
because she knows that it kills me
They fall to the bed together in slow motion, and he's already got his hands under her shirt to hold her breasts. He smiles when he finds her nipples are already hard. She arches up underneath him, gasps softly as he takes her mouth, his knee between her thighs to mark place while they tug and pull on clothes and laugh at their mutual impatience. Then she lies beneath him. Stars and moons glitter in her sable hair, her eyes green as a cat's and full of the most amazing secrets, all for him, only him.
with her long hair falling
and her eyes that shine like a midnight sun
oh she's the one
she's the one
He runs his hand down her flat belly to the sweet little cleft at the top of her thighs, rubs his thumb over her clitoris to make her open to him. When he slides in she welcomes him, lifts her hips so that he fills her. They buck and writhe and moan and make wild, noisy love; the bed creaks in a way that would have Wilson clench his teeth and probably his anus too, in mingled envy and disapproval at the mess and the vulgar disturbance for the neighbors.
It's a little later, when they're both on the edge of sleep, that she says "You don't have anything to prove to them, you know." Her fingers move a strand of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, a slow caress. "They know it. That's partly why they kept you on the outside looking in, all that time."
"I had as much to do with that as they did," he says, pushed as always to be truthful, no matter what the cost.
"Maybe so. But they could have met you halfway, and they never did. They tried to set everything up on their terms alone, which makes no sense to me." She raises up on one elbow and looks down at him. "You're not just some guy who made it through medical school and residency and all that. You're you. You're who you're supposed to be, you've never pretended to be anything else, at least it seems that way to me. And they couldn't handle it, so they tried to get you to be someone else." She runs her finger in a gentle line under his bottom lip. "Their loss, my gain."
He looks up at her, gauges her sincerity. She gazes down at him. Then she leans in and kisses him, and somehow that simple gesture puts everything they just did to utter shame, for intensity and pleasure and pure sweetness. "My gain," she says once more against his lips, and smiles. "I'm so glad for that at least, amante."
and tonight you'll try
just one more time
to leave it all behind
and to break on through
He watches her fall asleep finally, and thinks about what she said. It's a perspective he's never really let himself think about much, because in that direction lay more madness than even he could handle. But maybe she's right, just a little anyway. All he knows is that now he's in a better place than he's ever been before, and no little part of it is due to the woman who drowses in his arms, not some missed opportunity but here, warm and real.
oh and just one kiss
she'd fill them long summer nights
with her tenderness
that secret pact you made
back when her love could save you
from the bitterness
oh she's the one
February 24th
He wakes to the smell of fresh coffee and some kind of baked item. With a soft groan he rolls on his side and puts his arm over his eyes, unwilling to surface.
The next thing he knows, small hands gently rub his back. "Mmmmm . . ." he purrs, unable to help himself, though he knows this is a tactical mistake. Sure enough:
"Time to get up." Roz presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. "Breakfast is ready. I made Pop Tarts in the oven."
Greg lifts his arm and opens one eye. Pop Tarts are a secret weakness, and she knows it all too well. "What kind?"
"Strawberry, no icing," she says. "There's melted butter too. And scrambled eggs." She kisses him again, this time on the temple. "Come on, I need to strip the bed and get things washed."
With reluctance he sits up. "Wilson said we didn't have to clean anything," he grumbles.
"He was being polite. I'm not leaving a messy house for him to have a heart attack when he walks in."
Greg cocks an eye at Roz. "I bet you just sounded like your grandmother."
She gives his butt a light smack. "Go eat breakfast."
By the time he's eaten, packed his stuff and hers and loaded up the car, she's put clean sheets on the bed right out of the dryer, and the dishwasher's been emptied as well. "The fridge is ready to be unplugged again too," she says, and tucks a sheet corner with neat precision.
So they leave the loft the way they found it, spotless and empty. Well . . . except for the big box of ribbed neon-green condoms and an economy-sized bottle of cherry-flavored lube, both perched atop the nightstand and tied together with a glittery ribbon.
"Can't wait to be home," Roz says as they roar off down the street. She pops a Coleman Hawkins CD in the player and settles back to sip her coffee.
"Yeah," Greg says, and is glad to find it's the truth.
'She's The One,' Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band