Chapter 34

Christmas was just around the corner, and snow lay in thick drifts against the brick row houses of Acorn Street. Jane had risen from her nap heavy with fatigue; the baby was stealing much of her energy lately, and she was looking forward to her spring delivery. As a result, suppers lately were simple, but the hearty stews and thick breads she put together were both comforting and nourishing. Sully especially relished them, the simple food reminding him of the more rustic meals he'd enjoyed out west.

Every day, Michaela felt she saw more and more of the pioneer in him, and less of the cultured socialite he'd been raised to be. Growing up with the Nordheim's, he had been influenced as much by their spirit of independence and self-sustenance as their social status. And though he functioned with ease in Boston high society, she saw a special light in him in the more private moments away from the assessing eyes of society, and when he was truly able to be himself, it was a relaxed, easy, thoughtful man that emerged. And she loved this man, so dearly, so truly, that it overwhelmed her to be near him sometimes, and at other times, she felt as if she couldn't bear to be away from him. His strength, his steadiness, his compassion, his wisdom.

She sighed, realizing that again she'd become preoccupied by her thoughts and lost track of the cheerful conversation between Sully, Cummings, and Jane. She smiled distractedly as they laughed about something, catching Sully's questioning glance. She cut her eyes away, studying her stew, and once more found herself unable to pay attention to what they were saying.

Her thoughts drifted back to Sully's study. He had gone upstairs to change his clothes before supper, as his pants were wet from the snow, and Michaela had wandered into his study to look for the day's mail. There, on his desk, she'd found the invitation she'd been expecting from her mother, requesting their presence at the annual Quinn Christmas ball. It was open, partially covered by some government forms and carefully penned notes, as if it had been there for some time and was forgotten.

But she wanted to go. Rarely had they danced together, but now, she wanted to. Now… now that there was something more between them, dancing and celebrating together seemed all the more important. Before, their marriage had been a convenience, a ready-made dance partner. But now, it was a luxury and a necessity, to be with him, to dance with him, to celebrate life and family and Christmas and love with him. And yet, he hadn't said anything, never mentioned it in all their conversations, never mentioned it when he asked to court her.

She raised her spoon mechanically to her mouth, absently watching at him, seeing no signs of reluctance or guilt, no signs he was hiding anything, avoiding anything. Her brow creased in frustration. How could he act so carefree? Suddenly, she noticed he was staring back at her, clearly concerned. Blushing foolishly, she dropped her eyes. How long had she been staring at him?

Jane was in the kitchen putting the coffee and cookies away, and Cummings lighting fires to warm the bedrooms, when Michaela stopped in the door of Sully's study, two medical journals clutched against her chest. She hovered there for a moment, uncertain, and then permitted herself entrance, wandering over to the wing back chairs by the fire, staring into the flames for a moment before she sat down.

Sully had been about to greet her when she ventured into the room, and seeing something brewing beneath the surface, had chosen to remain silent. He could tell she was troubling herself about something. Even now, as she sat there, she couldn't focus on her reading. Her eyes would wander to the flickering flames, and she would stare blankly at them for a while before catching herself and glancing in his direction before lowering her gaze once more to the article she was attempting to read. She had yet to turn the page.

Watching for her reaction, he cleared his throat, and was rewarded with a hesitant meeting of her eyes.

"You haven't talked about the practice for a while… how's it going?"

She returned her gaze to the fire. "Fine. Mrs. Clooney came back to schedule an appointment… apparently she was displeased with Dr. Harrison."

He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "That's good."

"Yes," she whispered distractedly, feigning interest in her journal.

Abruptly he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his clasped hands. "You wanna tell me?"

"Tell what?" she asked innocently?

"What you're frettin' about?"

Her gaze flew to his. "I'm not fretting," she denied.

"You've been distracted all evening," he stated matter of factly.

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes slowly falling to her hands. He rose from his desk, coming over to kneel before her, and took her hands, his eyes trained on her face, waiting.

Finally, she looked up into his eyes. "I'd like to go to the Christmas ball," she murmured, a trace of hope in her voice.

"So?" he asked, confused. Of course they were going.

She returned his confused gaze, wondering why he didn't seem to understand what she was saying. "Are you going to ask me?" she prodded.

He sighed, shrugging. "I just figured," he leaned back on his heels. "…we'd be going together."

Michaela smiled skeptically, her sparkling eyes narrowing. "What made you figure that?"

"Well, we're married, and now we're courtin'. That means we go to things like that together," he said in a measured tone.

"Still, I…" she took a deep breath, summoning her courage. "…I would appreciate being asked," she said tentatively.

They exchanged knowing grins as he rose, pulling her gently to her feet, and holding her hands in his own.

"Will you go to the ball with me," he said slowly, smirking boyishly.

"No," she answered simply, without pause.

He dropped her hands, taking a step back.

"Why not?" he demanded, confused and frustrated.

"You waited too long," she stated matter-of-factly, a twinkle in her eye.

He looked away, sighing. "Fine, I'm not much for dancing anyway," he said stubbornly.

Michaela shook her head, laughter and disbelief in her voice. "I'm sure you've danced plenty of times."

"That doesn't mean I'm any good at it… all the squares and turns…" He threw his hands out in display. "…get all twisted up."

"It's perfectly simple once you learn the patterns," she insisted. "I'll practice with you," she offered, taking his hand.

"I thought you didn't want to go to the dance," he challenged, stiffening.

"I lied," she admitted, blushing at her own boldness. "I do want to go."

His frustration faded in the light of her shy smile. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it, holding her eyes with his own. The warmth of the fire, the glow it cast about her, the excitement of the day – their courtship – the knowledge that she loved him and also the knowledge he needed to maintain control of his instincts to hold her close, to kiss her, it all made his head spin. Heart pounding, he back away, still grinning.

Sully offered Michaela his arm, leading her up the stairs. He opened her door for her, ushering her in, but grasped her hand as he stopped in the doorway, causing her to turn back to him, barely masking her confusion.

"Goodnight," he whispered, hoping that would be enough to communicate his intentions. It would be too hard, too tempting, too close yet too far away…

Eyes hanging on his, she opened her mouth and closed it again, telling herself not to feel hurt. "Goodnight," she whispered, gently attempting to pull her hand away.

Seeing her confusion, he held fast to her fingers, giving them a soft squeeze. "I just thought… since we're courtin'…" He swallowed hard.

She looked down. "I know," she whispered. She lifted her chin, the familiar strength emanating from her. Lifting to her toes, she kissed his cheek softly. "Goodnight, Sully," she murmured.

He grinned, chuckling a little. "'Night."

"Thank you, Dr. Mike." Theda's sweet, aging smile warmed Michaela's heart. This was why she had become a doctor: to heal people who had nowhere else to go for help. Theda would have survived without her help, but the infection of her vocal cords would have rendered her mute. Now, she would live to tell her grandchildren bedtime stories.

"You're welcome, Theda." She squeezed the woman's hand, inconspicuously checking her pulse one last time. "Rest now," she admonished. I'll check on you before I leave."

The old woman closed her faded blue eyes, a pleased smile upon her pale lips. Quietly, she rose from the bed and left the room, pulling the door carefully closed behind her. She looked up to find several of her colleagues hovering around the nurses' desk, and she took pause, uncertain as to what may have caused them to linger there.

She headed toward them, half-expecting to find them consulting upon a groundbreaking case. But as she neared them, Sully came into view. Surprised to see him there, she altered her course, but was stopped in her tracks after a few more steps. Indignant rage rushed through her, but remembering their audience, she composed herself.

There he stood, grinning like a fool, with a bouquet of pink, blushing roses in his hand. She forced a half smile, her nostrils flaring.

"Sully," she greeted stiffly.

He reached out to touch her elbow, but she stiffened further at his touch. "Hey, Michaela, I…" he trailed off, confused by her demeanor. "Is everything okay?"

She cast a sideways glance at her colleagues, sure she heard them snicker to one another. Fighting to maintain her composure, she thought quickly.

"Yes, everything's fine." Her tone was neutral and measured. "Thank you for bringing these. Theda's sleeping right now, but she'll be thrilled to have fresh flowers in her room. I'll just take them to her, if you don't mind." She reached for the flowers, holding them at a professional distance. "I'll see you later." She nodded briefly, turned on her heel, and left him standing there, stunned.

Glancing at the smirking doctors, he fought back his embarrassment. Nodding sharply in their general direction, he left, feigning nonchalance.

Michaela strode briskly up the steps to the front door, breezing past Cummings with a brief nod. She stormed into Sully's study, closing the door firmly behind her, and unbuttoned her coat furiously, throwing it over a nearby chair. Her anger had only increased as the afternoon had carried on, and she was rapidly reaching her boiling point.

His expression cold, Sully rose from his desk, seemingly unphased by her undisguised fury.

"How dare you," she demanded, her voice cold and foreboding.

"How dare I?" he defended, fighting to keep his voice low. "How dare you?"

"What? I…" She was pacing, trying to sort through her thoughts. "You come to the hospital, with flowers, expecting me to… to…"

"Expecting you to say thank you! I don't know, to tell me about your day. But no, you just blow me off—"

"What did you expect me to do, in front of all of my colleagues? It's bad enough that I'm a woman, that I take the grand majority of the pro bono cases at the hospital, but then you bring me flowers? It reinforces the fact that I'm a woman, it underscores their belief that I'm flighty and emotional and therefore incompetent. Don't you see? They want with everything in their beings to prove that I'm incapable of true professionalism, that I'm emotionally and intellectually inferior, and then you practically do it for them! How was I supposed to respond?" She was shaking now, with frustration and fatigue and adrenaline.

Sully staggered back against the bookcase, as if she'd struck him. All afternoon he'd cursed her stubborn pride, his anger building the more he thought about the confrontation he knew was coming. He had been courting her for over a week now and was trying to do something thoughtful. But now, he realized for the first time that this was about her pride in a different sense. Without realizing, he'd threatened her reputation at a time when she was fighting with everything she had to hold on to her career.

"Michaela, I…" he released the breath he'd been holding, guilt and frustration at himself crushing him.

Exhausted, Michaela sunk into a chair before the fire, silent. She knew she shouldn't have raised her voice, but she wouldn't apologize for her anger.

Sully watched her for a moment, this dignified, intelligent, compassionate woman who was no doubt a better physician than any of those stuffy doctors at the hospital, but who faced a future of being overlooked at every turn due to her gender. He wanted to do nothing but lift her up before them, and instead he had thoughtlessly wounded her reputation.

Humbly, he knelt before her, seeking her eyes with his own. But she stared past him into the fire, her face expressionless. "Michaela. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about how those other doctors would look at ya." He took her hands, begging her to look at him. "This morning, I was thinking about how happy I am we're doing this, that things are changing between us." A tear rolled down her cheek, and he brushed it away tenderly. "I wanted to surprise you – I wanted to see you."

She pulled a hand away to brush more tears away. "You certainly did that," she laughed sarcastically.

He chuckled softly, gazing into her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt ya."

"I know." She laughed a little. "It seems we're arguing as we did when we were teenagers," she commented wryly.

"Everything's new again between us," he explained, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. Holding her close, he pressed his cheek against her hair, whispering above the crackle of the flames in the hearth, "just gotta work out some kinks."