Chapter Five: Face the Music
(November 8th)
Stepping out of the shower, Steve couldn't help but grin as he heard the newsman on the radio. All of the top stories were weather-related, and while he knew there would be serious repercussions to the sudden drop in temperature, he couldn't help but find it amusing. The weather, usually a boring topic for small talk when there was nothing better to discuss really was the talk of the town today.
Last night, during class, the jet stream had taken a freak dip deep into Southern California. High winds had buffeted the classroom building, and even made the lights flicker a few times, leaving the class nervous and subdued. By the time Steve, Sara, and MinJe had stepped outside, an arctic air mass had swept over LA. The first burst of cold air had burned their lungs and started Steve worrying about Sara. She had no coat, and her sweater wasn't nearly warm enough. When she refused his offer of a ride home, he had insisted on at least having her wait in his truck for her bus.
As he finished toweling off, Steve debated wearing his long underwear, but decided against it. Jeans would be enough for today, but he had to appear in court on Monday, and if it were this cold then, he'd have to wear his long johns under his suit. Instead, for today he chose to dress in several layers. Over his usual t-shirt, he put on a soft blue plaid flannel shirt, and he pulled a cornflower blue sweater that his father had given him last Christmas over that. His feet had a tendency to get cold, so he put on a thin pair of socks under a pair of regular white gym socks and then his sneakers. He had a heavy, lined nylon jacket in the closet, and he knew there were gloves and a hat in the pockets, so he figured he'd wear that to work.
He smiled as he thought about how his old friend Jack Stewart, now a doctor at a ski resort in Colorado, would laugh at him for bundling up like he was going on an expedition to Mt. Everest, but Steve had been a Southern California beach boy all his life. He'd only seen it get down to freezing around here a couple of times since he'd been born. The cold didn't bother him much when he was hiking or skiing in the mountains; but in the city, the most exercise he got during the day was walking to and from his car, heating systems weren't designed to meet the demands they would face today, and he knew the frigid wind would cut him right to the bone.
His amused smile sank into a grim frown as he thought back to the previous night. As he and Sara had waited for the bus in the warmth and security of his truck, they had chatted a little. Steve had been shocked to find she took the bus from Compton to the college and back every night. He told her he could drive her home in less than forty-five minutes, but she insisted she preferred the two-and-a-half-hour bus ride.
"By the time I get home," she had said, "my mom will be done screaming at the other kids, and my step-dad will have passed out drunk in front of the TV while watching wrestling or some stupid 'reality' show. I'll study for my chemistry test on the bus. Then, when I get home, all I'll have to do is change the baby's diaper to shut him up. After that, I can start my calculus homework, outline the chapter for history, and finish writing my term paper."
"Sara, if you let me drive you home, you'll at least have more time for homework."
She had laughed bitterly at him. "You grew up in a 'nice' family didn't you?"
Steve knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, so he had waited for her to continue.
"If I get home before midnight," she'd said, softly, "I'll just have more time to listen to everybody yell and fight, and maybe I'll get to watch my step-dad beat up my mom if he isn't too drunk to get out of the recliner by the time he completely loses his temper."
Her voice was so desolate, so matter of fact, Steve had wanted to cry for her.
"Sara . . ."
"There's my bus," she'd interrupted him. Scooting over to kiss his cheek, she then slipped out of the warm truck cab and scurried across the street to the bus stop. Steve watched as she dropped her money into the receptacle and took a seat away from the doors on the side facing him. She smiled brightly and waved at him, but as she turned round in her seat, Steve saw the smile disappear, and she wiped away a tear.
As his mind drifted back to getting ready for work, Steve noticed the message light on his answering machine blinking, and, hitting the playback button he heard, "Steve? It's Dad. I just wanted to let you know I spent the night at the hospital. The ER was busy because of the sudden change in weather, and by the time I was done helping out, I was too tired to drive home. Dress warmly today, and drive carefully. Believe it or not, the roads are actually icy in some places."
Steve frowned. His father's voice sounded strained. Typically, when extra help was needed at the hospital, his dad would volunteer, and while Steve couldn't fault him for being willing to help, he often worried that his father was pushing himself too hard. It was a family trait, apparently, Steve realized, as he suddenly recalled several occasions when his father had expressed the same concerns about him.
"Here's an interesting byproduct of the cold, Rick," a woman's voice on the radio cut across Steve's thoughts. "There were fewer crimes reported in LA last night than in any twelve hour period over the last fifteen years."
Steve smiled. Only a cop knew how meaningless those figures really were. An overnight drop in crime just meant he might have a couple hours to work on his backlog of paperwork. As soon as this cold spell broke, things would go back to normal, or worse, if the cold lasted more than a few days and some of the more unstable people out there went stir crazy. Sighing, he slipped on his jacket, hat, and gloves and headed out to his truck.
Rick's deep voice replied cheerfully, "I guess even the crooks were too cold to go out last night. It could be a pretty peaceful week for the police if this weather keeps up."
Mark smiled, then smiled even wider, then frowned as the banter on the radio in the doctors' lounge made him think of his son. The initial smile was the same one he always got when he thought how lucky he was to have a son like Steve. The wider smile was happy and hopeful that the two radio personalities were right and the police would have an easy week. Anything that caused a drop in the crime rate made his son safer, and that made Mark happy. The frown came when he remembered why he was here and not just waking up in his own bed at home.
He was still furious with Steve. Mark poured himself a cup of coffee and staggered over to the table in the lounge as he remembered last night.
After the aspiring nurses had left, he'd lingered in the classroom and watched from the window as Steve and the girl--God, she was so young!--sat and talked in his truck. He wasn't really meaning to spy, but he couldn't figure out why they were just sitting there. Then the bus came, and he saw her slide across the seat, kiss Steve, and then scurry to the bus. It had been bad enough to know his son was . . . with a mere child, but to know Steve wouldn't even drive her home had made the whole disgusting episode seem cheap and tawdry as well, and Mark had seen red.
Some of Mark's coffee splashed from the cup as he set it clumsily on the table and sat down. He slid the bottom of his mug through the puddle and started making ring patterns on a napkin as he continued to mull over the situation.
A part of his mind had insisted there must to be another explanation to Steve's behavior, and knowing how angry he was, he had decided to go to the hospital until he calmed down. He needed to talk to Steve, to find out just what in the hell he thought he was doing with that little girl, and he couldn't do that until he controlled his rage. As cold as it was, the ER was seeing a lot of patients suffering from frostbite, hypothermia, and other exposure problems, and he had been busy through the night. Many of the patients he had seen were homeless and had been ill prepared for the sudden cold snap.
He hoped Steve dressed warmly this frigid morning, and his jaw clenched as his ire rose. He took a swallow of his coffee and made a face. Strong as battery acid and black as sin, it was guaranteed to wake you up if it didn't kill you first.
He hadn't had the chance to speak to Jesse at all last night because they'd been so busy. Besides the exposure patients, there had been several bad wrecks caused by black ice on the roads, something many people in Los Angeles had never encountered before, and the younger doctor had been busy all night in the trauma suites and OR.
He sure hoped Steve drove carefully. Again, his temper flared, and as he stirred some sugar into his cup to make the drink more palatable, he splashed more of the liquid out. It was bad enough that Steve was old enough to be her father, but the way he was sneaking around made it positively indecent. It indicated to Mark that Steve had no doubt what he was doing was wrong, and he knew his father and friends would disapprove, but far from being discouraged, he had simply chosen to be very clever about hiding his activities.
Mark sighed a tired sigh and went over to the coffee pot to pour himself another cup. By three in the morning, things in the ER had settled down. Jesse still had four hours to go on his shift, and Mark had been too tired to drive home. He hadn't felt up to confronting Steve either, so he had decided to get a few hours' sleep in his office before changing into the spare clothes he kept there and starting his rounds. Now the coffee was kicking in--What did Steve call it? Plasma with cream and sugar?--and he was almost ready to face another day.
"Hey, Mark, what are you still doing here?"
"Oh, hi Jess. I spent the night in my office. Too tired to drive."
"Mark, you know you shouldn't have done that. Steve will be worried. You could have called a cab."
Mark bit his tongue to keep from exploding and telling Jesse all the reasons he just didn't much care if Steve would be worried right now. "I called him half an hour ago. He must have been in the shower, but I left a message. Did you call Bob's and ask for him last night?"
"Yeah, and he was out. I was thinking I'd go meet him for lunch at the precinct. At least there, if he gets mad at me for asking questions he won't be able to hurt me. Too many cops around."
For once, the young man's infectious good humor did not infect Mark. He just gave Jesse a shuttered look and said, "Ok. Let me know what you find out."
"Ladies and gentlemen, please, be very careful when you're driving today," the DJ's deep satiny voice said, and Mark again hoped Steve would be cautious.
"There were several serious accidents over night caused by ice on the roads, and since it's not likely to warm up much today, the roads will probably still be dangerous."
"Tell me about it, Rick," the woman said. "I spent about six years in North Dakota, and man, when you hit a patch of black ice doing sixty, you are completely at its mercy."
Steve switched off the radio in his truck and headed into Mr. Downing's shop. Last night Sara and MinJe had convinced him that he was already good enough to have the man return his mother's violin, and now he was itching to get it back. He walked straight to the counter and rang the small silver bell there. When Mr. Downing came out, he looked surprised to see him.
"Can I help you?" the old man asked coolly.
"I want my mother's violin back," Steve said. "Is it ready?"
"It is," Downing said laughingly, "but you're not."
Steve put the rented violin up on the counter, opened the case, and said, "Listen."
He was a little nervous, playing for the first time in front of someone outside of the class, but on the drive from the house, he had made up his mind that he was going to get his mother's violin back today, whether Downing was satisfied with his playing or not. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he drew the bow across the strings.
Steve smiled as the music floated from the strings. It was as magical now as it had been the first time he tried to play in class. Then, he had just played single unconnected notes and had thought that was music. Now, he knew better, and he played better, but he was still amazed every time the glorious sounds arose from his instrument.
He played 'Silent Night' and 'We Three Kings' then slipped into the 'gloria' section of 'Angels We Have Heard on High' that he had worked so hard on last night. When he finished, he opened his eyes and found Downing staring at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed.
"Well?"
Downing blinked twice then said, "Do you have a few minutes?"
Steve looked at his watch. He had to be to work in forty-five minutes. He nodded. "I can stick around for about half an hour. Will it be ready by then?"
Downing nodded. "Yes. Yes, it will be. I-I have someone I would like you to play for if you don't mind."
Steve thought about it and shrugged. If he could get his mother's violin back sooner by humoring the old man, he'd be glad to do it. "As long as I'm not late for work."
Downing scurried off, and Steve took advantage of the time to practice. He played through 'Angels We Have Heard on High' once more, losing himself in the melody, then went into 'The First Noel,' which was a little rough. Still, he knew it wasn't bad considering he'd only started practicing it two days ago. He had no idea how long he'd been playing when, as he took a moment between songs to decide what he'd play next, another violin broke into the silence.
He lowered his bow and instrument and was about to turn when a soft voice commanded, "No. Play it back to me."
Steve smiled. He and Sara had played this game a few times, a bit like 'Dueling Banjos', and he had always won. It frustrated Sara no end, but she still always begged to play again, because trying to keep up with him helped improve her playing.
He played the simple melody back, and the woman's voice said, "Try this."
She played a longer string of notes, and Steve played them back effortlessly.
"Oh, good. Very good," the voice said warmly, "Now this."
Several times, they went back and forth, and gradually, she challenged him. Steve was focusing hard, now, almost mesmerized by the notes the mysterious woman behind him played. She finished, and he raised his instrument and bow to imitate her, but the jangling of the bell as another customer entered the store shattered his concentration.
"I can't," he said, lowering the violin and shaking his head. He turned to see the woman who had been testing his skill and found a lovely lady around his own age smiling at him as if she had found a long lost treasure.
"Thomas tells me you're Catherine Meehan's son."
Steve took in the round face, pleasant smile, short blond hair, and dark eyes. She was wearing dark red leggings and an oversized green chenille sweater with a design of Christmas tree ornaments decorating it.
"I always knew her as Catherine Sloan," Steve said, "but yes, Meehan was her maiden name."
"Then you must be Stevie," the woman said extending her hand, and Steve blushed at the childhood nickname.
"It's Steve, now," he said, and, shaking the offered hand, added, "and I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
"I'm so sorry," the woman laughed and blushed a little herself. "Where are my manners? I am Rachel Wood, and my mom used to play at the Phil with Catherine. They were quite good friends until she quit, and I recollect when she would bring you round to our house on a visit now and again."
"I-I'm sorry," Steve said taken aback. "I don't recall."
"Oh, you wouldn't," Rachel chuckled, and explained, "You were still in diapers when my father packed us all off to Boston for a position with the symphony. But I was just a couple years older than you, and I remember. Mom took some time off to raise her children, but then, when Arthur Fiedler started the Boston Pops Orchestra, she was invited to be one of the founding members."
Before Steve could think of a suitable reply, a soft 'Ahem' interrupted their conversation.
Steve turned to see his mother's violin on the counter, shining reddish-gold, like satin, and as he stood and admired it, Rachel came up beside him and said softly, "You should play it."
He caught his breath and glanced over his shoulder at her, then he handed his rented instrument to Mr. Downing and gingerly picked up the family heirloom. He stared at it, mesmerized, for several moments, then said, "It has different strings."
Mr. Downing nodded. "The kind of strings you use make a difference in the sound. In time, you may want to switch to gut-core strings, but for now, I think you will find these add a richness and nuance that your playing was lacking before."
Steve nodded and asked Rachel, "What should I play?"
She smiled and said, "Anything you want."
Steve nodded again, and as he went to place his fingers on the fingerboard, he said, somewhat disconcerted, "It doesn't have any dots."
Rachel laughed at him, and he smiled at the melodic sound, "You don't need them."
"How will I know where to put my fingers?"
"Close your eyes. You were playing with your eyes closed when I walked in, and you knew just where to place your fingers."
Steve closed his eyes and stood up straight. He gripped the neck of the violin and placed his fingers on the strings to begin 'Angels We Have Heard on High' yet again, but he was unsatisfied and had to adjust his grip. He really missed the dots. Once he got started, he knew he would be fine, but he needed the dots as a reference point to start him off. He shook his head and adjusted his grip once more.
He was beginning to feel as nervous as he had the first night of class, and he kept shifting his grip on the strings. Not able to get comfortable with this new instrument, he opened his eyes to check the placement of his fingers, and started slightly when he heard Rachel's voice close beside him say, "Stop it."
He sighed in frustration.
Very softly, she told him, "Close your eyes, and hear the music in your head. You've played it before, and you can do so again."
Following her instructions, he stood for several moments bobbing his head and mouthing the words, then, when he was in the middle of the tune, he pulled the bow across the strings, and a rich, vibrant melody drifted from the violin. Steve played the tune through to the end, and as the last notes drifted free of the strings and the bow, he felt something new come alive in his soul. He couldn't imagine how he had gone his whole life without making music, and he ached to learn more, right now.
"It sounds so different," he whispered, staring at the instrument as if it had suddenly come alive in his hands.
"Like Thomas said," Rachel explained, "the strings make a difference."
"Play something for me to play back," Steve said.
"No," Rachel said, "I don't think so."
"Please!" Steve winced as he heard the begging tone in his own voice.
Rachel laughed musically at him again, and said, "No, Steve. You should make your own music, not imitate someone else." She smiled then and said, "I think you need to make your own music."
He simply nodded. She had seen it in him before he had recognized it himself, but it was undoubtedly there, the need to create art.
She handed him a business card and said, "Give me a call, and I will teach you."
As he reached out to accept the card, he glanced at his watch and panicked. He was already fifteen minutes late for work. Hurriedly, he loosened his bow and placed the violin in its case, then he slipped Rachel's card into the pocket in the lid.
"I will call you," he said as he rushed out the door, "tonight!"
"Sloan here," Steve answered his phone before the first ring was finished and shifted stiffly in his seat. He'd slipped as he was leaving Mr. Downing's shop, and went down hard on the seat of his pants, cradling the violin close to his chest to protect it. When he got to the truck, he quickly tucked the violin away under the seat, knowing that he'd soon have to find a better place to hide it, and then he drove to work as quickly as he could safely manage.
By the time he got to work, his bruised behind was throbbing. It hadn't helped any that he was then forced to sit in the hard wooden chair in Captain Newman's office and get chewed out for a quarter of an hour for being late to his shift. By the time he was actually able to take some aspirin for the pain, he was limping, and was forty-five minutes late starting his work.
"Hey, Steve. It's Jesse."
"Oh, hi, Jess. I hate to ask this but can I call you later? I . . .uh . . . I was late to work, and Newman will chew my butt off As much as it hurts, that might not be a bad thing if he catches me taking personal calls on police time today."
"Why were you late?" Jesse asked.
"I, ah, well . . .I'd rather not say." Steve was hoping to keep his new talent a secret from everyone until Christmas Eve.
"Steve, is everything ok?" Jesse asked, now genuinely concerned, and Steve immediately felt bad. He hated to worry his friend, but he didn't want to tell him about the violin yet. He couldn't think of a good explanation, so he settled for a lame excuse.
"Look, Jess, I just sort of overslept. I woke up on time, but the house was cold and I really didn't want to get out of bed. I must have drifted off again, and I was late."
Jesse laughed, "I'll bet Newman tore you apart for that one."
Steve sighed, relieved that his friend found his explanation plausible. "Yeah, and he will again if he catches me on a personal call after coming in half an hour late. So, why did you call?"
"I thought maybe we could have lunch at noon. I needed to talk to you about something."
"Mmmm . . . " Steve thought it over, "Today's not really a good day. Are you coming out to the beach house this weekend?"
"Yeah," Jesse replied, his tone a little cold, "but I thought you might prefer to discuss this privately."
Steve was troubled by Jesse's words. What did they have to discuss that required privacy?
"Jess? What's up?"
"I was just wondering why you're skipping your shifts at Bob's is all."
"Oh, ummm, look, why don't we meet at Zeno's, say, around noon?"
At a deli a few blocks from the precinct, Steve slipped into the booth across from Jesse and took off his hat and gloves. "I don't know if I've ever seen it so cold in LA," he said.
Jesse smiled and said, "Yeah, tell me about it. I thought I left this kind of weather back in Illinois. It's definitely a soup day."
The two friends ordered their meals and chatted a while before Jesse got down to business. Then, he took matters in hand and very bluntly questioned his friend.
"Steve," he said, "I called Bob's for takeout on my meal break last night, and when I asked for you, Kerry tried to make excuses for a while, then she finally told me you were out and she was covering for you. I'd like to know why, Steve, and why did you ask her to keep it a secret?"
"First of all, Jess, I wasn't gone the whole shift," Steve tried to explain. "I was there early, and I was back in time to close and count the receipts for the night. We had a good night because the new Jack Blood movie was opening at the Cineplex."
Jesse refused to be lured away from the topic at hand and said, "That's great, Steve. It must have been a busy night, but why weren't you there? I mean, if you have other things you need to do, we can always work something out between us and Alicia, but you know when Alicia's off, one of us really needs to be there, in case there's a problem the wait staff can't handle."
"I know, Jess, but that doesn't happen all that often, and, well, I just needed a few hours to myself," Steve said, squirming uncomfortably in his seat and then grimacing as the motion reminded him painfully of his sore posterior.
"Steve," Jesse said, "I've been asking a few questions, and I've come to find out it's been a few hours every night this week. Is there something wrong? Do we need to hire another manager?"
Anxious to protect his Christmas surprise, Steve sat in mutinous silence for several minutes. He was a grown man, why was Jesse checking up on him? Finally, instead of answering, he countered with a defensive question.
"What's with the third degree, Jess? Do you think maybe I'm not pulling my fair share at the restaurant?"
Jesse took a deep breath, willing himself to remain patient. "No, Steve, you know better than that. I'm just concerned, is all. If it were only a night or two, and you hadn't lied to me," Jesse gave him an accusing glare, "I might believe your excuse, but every night for a week tells me there's something going on. Your dad's worried, too."
"Dad knows?"
Jesse nodded and said, "And he's been missing you lately. Have you been especially busy between work and the restaurant?"
Steve shrugged. Unwilling to tell the truth and unable to contrive a convincing lie, he was reluctant to answer.
Taking Steve's silence to mean he needed more coaxing to make him talk, Jesse added, "Amanda thinks you're in love."
Steve thought about it. In a way, he was. In the past week, he had found a whole new side of himself, a part of his personality he was excited to explore. When he was making music, his eternal restlessness melted away. The horror and tragedy of his job and the lingering sadness it sometimes left with him faded and dissolved. The stress, anger, and frustration, of dealing with senseless, needless death all day just disappeared, and the first notes to drift from his strings always shattered any foul mood he might have. He was becoming a different man in some ways, intensely focused, but calmer and more at peace than he could ever remember being, and he liked the person he was getting to know through his music.
Then, this morning, when he'd played his mother's violin for the first time, he caught just a glimpse of what he could be, and he had wanted more, then and there. He knew there was no way to explain all of this to Jesse, so he settled for the convenient excuse.
He nodded. "Maybe I am," was all he said. Jesse did not need to know that he was in love with making music.
Jesse grinned and reached across the table to give him an affectionate jab in the shoulder. "So, come on, give it up. Who is she? Where'd you meet? What's she like? Is she the reason you've been ditching your shifts at Bob's?"
Steve just smiled and shook his head, "Not yet, Jess. I'm not sure how serious this is, where it's going, or how long it's going to last, but yes, it is the reason I've not been working at Bob's. Just, well, tell Dad I'm ok and he doesn't need to worry about me. I'll be late getting home tonight, but I'll see him this weekend, ok?"
Jesse eyed his friend. Steve was withholding something important. Still, seeing how happy he was, Jesse was reluctant to press for more information. Steve would share when he was ready, but until then, Jesse was content to let him enjoy his new romance.
Ignoring Jesse's incredulous look, Steve continued talking. "And make sure Dad takes his breaks today, would you? He called this morning to tell me he'd spent the night at the hospital. I don't like the idea of him working so hard."
Hearing nothing he could question in Steve statements, Jesse just nodded. "Ok, I'll do that." Looking at his watch, he added, "And you better get back to work before Newman tears into you again."
Steve looked at his own watch, made a worried face, shook hands, said goodbye, and, thinking he had satisfied Jesse's curiosity, left his friend to finish his lunch alone.
Mark sat poking at something on his tray in the hospital cafeteria. The casual observer might have thought he simply found the food unpalatable, but those who knew him well could tell that he also had something serious on his mind. He started slightly as the fork was pulled from his hand and tray was removed unexpectedly, but had to admit he was glad to see it go. Then he smiled as a spoon replaced the fork and a tub of some ambrosial scented concoction of tender fresh vegetables and chunks of prime roasted beef was placed before him.
"Eat," Jesse's voice commanded. "Steve is fine. We had lunch at Zeno's Deli, and I know how you love their vegetable beef soup. Today is a definite soup day, so I brought you some."
"So," Mark asked, "what's going on with him?"
"Eat," Jesse said again, "and I'll tell you."
Though he still had no appetite, Mark swallowed a spoonful of soup and tried to look appreciative. Jesse sat across from him and watched as he took several more bites. When he was satisfied that Mark was enjoying his treat, he began to speak.
"Steve is fine," Jesse said. "Amanda was right. He's in love."
"How can you be sure?" Mark asked, hoping desperately to find another explanation for the behavior he had witnessed the night before.
"He told me so," Jesse replied, grinning and oblivious to his friend's distress.
"Oh, no." Mark pushed the soup away. "Oh, no, no, no." He got up and left the table.
After a surprised moment, Jesse put the lid on the soup and went scrambling after him. Catching up with him, he asked, "Mark, what's wrong? I thought you'd be happy that Steve has found someone."
"Under normal circumstances, yes," Mark said, jabbing at the elevator button when he got to it, "but not this time."
Jesse stepped inside, and since several nurses coming off break already occupied the elevator, he had to stop the conversation for a moment. When the elevator arrived at the floor for Mark's office, he and Jesse got off.
"Dr. Sloan, I need some help with . . . "
"Not now, Alex," Mark cut him off, uncharacteristically rude and left the young man staring at him as he stormed down the hall.
"Why not this time, Mark? Why aren't you happy for Steve?" Jesse demanded. He had to stop and come back a step when Mark stopped short and turned to answer him.
The hall was quiet, and though Mark and Jesse kept their voices low, Alex could hear their every word as he pretended to study the chart in his hands. He wasn't really eavesdropping, he told himself. He was just concerned about his friends.
"I saw them together, Jesse, last night when I went to lecture to that nursing class."
"Oh," Jesse was still confused, "Them? Who?"
"Steve and his . . . girlfriend," Mark hissed.
"Oh, well, did she seem nice?"
"Oh, she seemed lovely," Mark said sarcastically, "beautiful, too, and much too young for him."
"Mark, I'm surprised at you," Jesse said. "I never would have imagined a few years would make such a difference to you."
"I'm not talking about a few years, Jess." Mark was growing angrier by the moment. "I'm talking about twenty-five, maybe thirty years difference. I doubt she's out of high school yet."
"Look, Mark . . . "
Mark spun away and stalked off to his office. Surprised to find himself talking to empty air, Jesse scrambled to catch up again.
Alex grinned and turned back to the nurse's desk. That sly old dog. He knew women found Steve Sloan extremely attractive, and while he'd never had much luck with relationships, it wasn't for lack of opportunity. Even so, Alex had to wonder just what kind of mojo the man had to attract a girl young enough to be his daughter.
Following Mark into his office, Jesse said, "Maybe she just looks young, Mark."
"No, Jess, she is young, much too young for Steve."
"How do you know?" Jesse moved over to the small refrigerator Mark kept in his office and slipped the soup inside. No sense letting it go to waste.
"I just knew, Jesse," Mark insisted. "She had that look about her, a little awkward, clumsy, like her hands and feet were too big for the rest of her. She wasn't sure where to put them to keep them out of the way. She's just a girl, Jesse, and my son has no business . . . being with her."
Jesse nodded seriously as his friend and mentor moved about his office, apparently packing up for the day.
"Mark, are you sure she's the one he's in love with? Maybe she's his girlfriend's daughter or a kid he knows from the Never Say Die Gym."
Mark shook his head and snorted. "No, trust me Jess, this was his girlfriend."
"How can you be sure?"
Mark stopped dead still and looked right through Jesse, remembering those dreadful moments from last night. "He was letting her feed him, Jess, at one of the picnic tables in the courtyard. Then she kissed him. Really kissed him," Mark emphasized before Jesse could argue that Mark might have simply misinterpreted a simple gesture of friendly affection. "They walked into the building arm in arm. He stood on the sidewalk, hugging and kissing her as they made up after an argument."
"Oh, he is smitten, then." Jesse knew how his friend was about public displays of affection, and there was no way he would be so open with a woman in full view of others unless he had completely lost himself to her.
"Then, he . . . " Mark paused, almost too disgusted to tell the rest, "he sat with her in his truck and waited for the bus to come. He wouldn't even drive her home, probably because her parents would not approve."
Mark yanked his closet open and pulled out his jacket. Without so much as saying goodbye, he walked out of his office, jamming his arms into the sleeves of the coat and headed back to the elevator.
"Mark," Jesse said, worried and hurrying to keep up, "where are you going?"
"I am going down to the precinct to speak to my son and put a stop to this ill-considered affair."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Mark."
"What, you think I should ignore this? You think I should just let him . . . seduce that child?"
"No, but . . . "
"But what, Jesse?" Mark snapped. "You can't possibly think their relationship is healthy. You can't believe I should allow it to continue."
When he grabbed the older doctor by the collar of his coat and shoved him into the stairwell, Jesse knew he was shattering the limits of his student-mentor relationship with Mark Sloan. He knew he was going beyond the bounds of friendship, too, but, hell, he was practically family, and that had to count for more. He'd been invited to spend every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthday with the Sloans since he'd first met them, and he had usually accepted the invitation. They'd both saved his life more than once, and he had returned the favor a few times. If anyone dared take Mark aside and lecture him in his present state, it was Jesse.
"Let me go, Jess," Mark insisted, his fury rising.
Jesse pushed him against the wall, firmly enough to keep him in place, but careful not to injure the older man.
"I will let you go once you have heard me out. Will you listen?"
Mark glowered, but he nodded, and Jesse let go of his coat, relieved that his friend was at least willing to listen.
"First of all, no, I don't think their relationship should be allowed to continue, if she is as young as you seem to think, Mark."
"Fine, then, let me go."
As Mark turned to head down the stairs, Jesse grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back against the wall.
"Jesse . . . " he said in a warning tone.
"Mark, you agreed to hear me out." Jesse waited a moment, and when his friend showed no further resistance, he continued. "I don't think their relationship should be allowed to continue," he repeated, "but I'm not sure you need to go charging off to the station and issuing ultimatums to end it."
"You think I should just wait for him to get tired of her?" Mark asked. "Jesse, I can't do that. This has to end now, before my son does something he will regret for the rest of his life."
"Mark, Steve is a decent, honorable man," Jesse said. "You should know that because you raised him. A romance with a teenage girl is totally out of character for him. What if there's something wrong, something below the surface?"
"Jesse, what are you suggesting?"
"Steve's had a hell of a rough year, Mark," Jesse explained, trying hard to reason things through in his own mind as he explained for his friend. "You know he still feels guilty about Carol because he didn't realize she was in trouble when she called you at the party."
Mark swallowed hard and nodded, the mere mention of his daughter's name still brought the pain back fresh. "I've tried to get him to talk about it, but you know how he is. I even suggested grief counseling when he refused to talk to me, and that went over like a lead balloon."
Jesse smiled slightly, imagining his friend's reaction to such a suggestion.
"When Ellen left at the last minute for that job in Chicago, Mark, he tried so hard to hide how much it hurt, but you know it had to destroy him."
"What are you suggesting, Jesse? Do you think this is some kind of rebound relationship, some payback, showing Ellen he can get it when he wants it and he doesn't need her?" Mark looked genuinely shocked at the idea, and Jesse didn't blame him. Ellen had practically torn Steve's heart out and stomped on it, but that sort of vindictiveness was atypical for Steve under any circumstances.
Jesse shook his head, "No, Mark, I think it might go a lot further than that. The holidays can be a very lonely time for some people."
Mark snorted in disbelief. His son had too many friends to ever be lonely. Before he could protest, Jesse overrode him.
"Think about it, Mark. In the past year, he's lost his sister and his fiancée left him literally standing at the altar."
Mark shuddered at the memories. Steve had been wracked with guilt over Carol's death, certain that he should have been able to help her. It hadn't mattered to him that she had been miles away when she called and that the cell phone reception was bad. It hadn't mattered that there was no way he could have gotten to her in time if he had realized the danger she was in. He was her big brother, and he should have known she needed him. Almost as bad as losing his sister was the pain he felt knowing that he would never have the opportunity to grant his father's wish to someday see them become friends. It had taken Steve months to work through the guilt, but he would probably never get over the loss.
Then, just as Steve was beginning let himself feel things again, just about the time he had started smiling and joking like he'd done before Carol's death, Ellen Sharp had waltzed back into his life. The two had bickered like the proverbial old married couple from the moment they had met, but Steve seemed to enjoy the ceaseless teasing and squabbling, and Ellen's constant pestering seemed to draw him out of his shell a little after Carol's death. Though Mark had his reservations, and despite the fact that he couldn't recall quarreling with Catherine the way his son did with his young lady, he had given them his blessing and said a prayer for their happiness.
When Ellen called him from the airport on their wedding day to tell him she had decided to go to Chicago after all, Steve had tried so hard to put on a brave face, and had even insisted that the reception party go on as planned, but that night, Mark had heard him sobbing in his downstairs apartment. Mark had gone to his son, and for the next hour, Steve had alternated between calling Ellen filthy names, wondering what was wrong with him, and pleading with his father for an explanation as to why she had run off. When Mark had no suitable excuse at the ready, Steve had eventually cried himself to sleep.
"He's over forty and still single, Mark," Jesse continued to explain, his thoughts becoming clearer as he talked, and making him more and more concerned about his friend. "Most of his friends and colleagues are married with children now, and some even have grandkids. I'll bet two or three people have already asked him to cover for them on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Year's precisely because he doesn't have anyone right now."
"He has us," Mark insisted hotly.
Jesse smiled sadly and said, "Of course he does, and he always will, but that's not the same as having . . . someone, is it?"
Mark sighed, frowned, and shook his head. "No, I suppose not. So, what do we do?"
Not at all sure he wanted to follow through with the suggestion, Jesse said, "Let me talk to him. I'm coming out to the beach house tomorrow, and if you can make yourself scarce for a little while, I see if I can't get him to open up about what he's feeling. Maybe, if he'll just talk to me, I can help him see the mistake he's making. If he can just face the music and accept that it's inappropriate, I am sure I can and get him to stop it."
Mark was thoughtful for a moment, then he nodded. "Ok," he said, "but if you don't resolve this tomorrow, I'm going to talk to him. I will not let this . . . relationship . . . continue."