As Louisa slipped her hand into mine and I squeezed it gently, I decided that surgical waiting rooms could indeed be frightening places. A telly hung from the ceiling, airing the BBC at a volume one could hear only if paying close attention. Dozens of antiquated magazines to which no one would voluntarily subscribe, or even read, littered the tables. Some relatives tried to read books or even work on a computer. It was easy to see that the distractions weren't working; to a person, they were nervous, anxious, and scared.

Each time the waiting room door would swing open, a dozen heads would anxiously pop up to see if their surgeon was the one approaching, if it was their turn to learn the fate of a loved one. And, those for whom news was not yet forthcoming would return to their eerie vigil.

Even Louisa wasn't immune. She'd brought with her several magazines, but I noticed that she mostly flipped through them and had been staring at the same page for the past twenty minutes.

I'd been through the experience many times, but always from the other side. I'd been the one delivering the news, not awaiting it. I now realized that, as many times as I'd done it – literally thousands – I'd never thought twice about what the relatives were going through. I'd simply relayed the facts and the outcome, which generally was favorable. I endured their appreciation – expressed with words, hugs and even the occasional kiss – and went on my way. Often it was the last, or even the only, time I'd ever see them, which was fine with me.

"How long does the surgery take?" Louisa asked, looking away from her magazine.

"Ninety minutes, more or less."

"How long has Chris been in theatre?"

I recognized her questions for what they were – a way of redirecting her nervous energy.

I glanced at my watch. "Forty-five minutes."

She sighed. "Halfway done, then."

I started to correct her, to explain that the surgery might well be over in only an hour or, if the surgeon ran into unexpected complications, could take closer to two. And that the chief surgeon usually let one of the registrars open and close, meaning that he was free to talk to the relatives even before surgery was fully concluded.

I closed my mouth before a word came out. None of it really mattered.

The feel of Louisa's hand resting firmly in mine took me back to the previous night when we'd made love in our small bed, the first time since that short period after our engagement. In the months since our son had been conceived – when Louisa was in London and then even after she'd returned, I'd convinced myself that I could easily spend the rest of my life without her, without her touch, her scent, or the feel of her body intertwined with mine.

Last night had changed all that. We'd started slowly, cuddling and holding each other as we had so many times since we'd been back together. What we hadn't done on those other nights was actually have intercourse. It had been just over two months since James was born and I worried about causing Louisa any discomfort. Of course, in the midst of our foreplay, I'd had to question her about it.

She'd propped herself on one elbow. "Martin," she'd said, more than a little frustration in her tone. "Stop being my doctor! I'm fine; I'm enjoying this. If something hurts, I'll tell you."

So, I'd done my best to turn off my medical instincts and instead focus my energy on giving her pleasure. And seeing her pleased only heightened my own pleasure and desire. Unlike those first few times when our lovemaking was fresh and frantic, last night we'd proceeded gradually, enjoying the experience of discovering each other's bodies once again after so many months apart. Whereas the first few times, it was mostly lust, last night, it had been intimacy. And, when James Henry had awakened us an hour later, somehow it didn't even matter.

As I sat here in the surgical waiting room on the morning after, feeling the security of Louisa's touch and smiling inwardly at the memory of a few hours before, I wondered how I'd ever managed to convince myself I could live without her. After these weeks together – and then the passion of last night – I couldn't imagine not being with Louisa.

Even as those thoughts crossed my mind, I mentally kicked myself. What hell was I doing daydreaming about making love to Louisa while Parsons was lying on the operating table as Nigel Leahy scooped plaque out of his neck? And while his wife, only a few seats away, worried about whether she would ever again spend even one more night in bed with her husband.

As the morning wore on, I found consulting my mental clock, walking through the procedure in my mind and hoping that everything was going according to plan. The greatest risk was a CVA on the table, which was why it was so critical for the surgeon and anesthetist to monitor Parsons' pressure throughout the procedure. His history of hypertension would be a complicating factor.

Louisa had gone for coffee for herself and Emily and lemonade for Dan. I deferred – even as a surgeon I'd spurned hospital coffee that, in my experience, was uniformly cold and tasteless.

A glance at my watch showed that nearly ninety minutes had passed and I found myself getting edgy. Using a local rather than a general anesthetic should have shortened the time on the table, and the fact that Leahy had yet to appear wasn't a good sign. I forced myself not to fidget in my seat; any sign of nervousness on my part would only add to Emily's and Louisa's concerns.

Just when I was about to visit to the surgical information desk to find out what the hell was taking so long, I saw Leahy stride through the door, still dressed in his surgical scrubs – absent cap and mask. He cut a striking presence, standing more than two inches taller than my own considerable height. With bushy almost black hair that sported only a touch of gray, deep brown eyes and a square jaw, one could easily mistake him for an actor or even a fashion model.

My focus, however, was on his demeanor. I knew how a surgeon felt, and looked, when surgery hadn't gone well. Thankfully, I didn't detect a hint of consternation in Leahy and allowed myself an inward sigh. I also knew that, if the news were bad, Leahy would never have delivered it in the presence of Dan.

He covered the distance to us in a few strides as we rose to our feet. Louisa's hand grabbed mine, her nails digging into my palm.

"Mrs. Parsons," Leahy said formally, focusing his attention on Emily.

"Yes," she answered in a shaky voice.

His features turned into a smile. "Everything went very well."

Emily sighed heavily. "Oh, thank God."

Tension unexpectedly fled my own body.

"Chris is in Recovery now and will be moved to the high dependency unit within the hour," Leahy continued. "You can see him once he's there. Why don't you get a bite to eat? It'll be another hour or so before he's moved."

She reached for his hand. "Thank you."

Leahy's smile broadened. "Of course."

As Emily hugged her son, I trailed Leahy into the corridor, anxious to ask a few technical questions about the procedure. We discussed control of Parsons' blood pressure, the shunt he'd chosen, the amount of calcification, and likely post-operative course.

"I know it took a bit long," he concluded, "but I wanted to do the closing myself."

I was unexpectedly impressed. Leahy probably hadn't opened or closed in years; for him to do it for Parsons was truly going the extra mile. "I appreciate that," I replied.

"Well, everything looks good, so I'm planning to head back to London this evening," Leahy said. "Parsons should be discharged tomorrow. Dinwiddie will be his surgeon of record, but I'd like you to check him as well. I hate to say this but you've forgotten more about endarterectomy than most of the physicians in this hospital will ever know. Your BMJ article on blocked carotids is still required reading for my registrars."

I tried to hide my smile at the compliment. "Of course."

"And I suggested he follow up with you as his GP, at least initially. For the same reasons."

"Thank you again, Nigel."

"Happy to help. And I mean that." He started to turn away then stopped and looked me in the eyes. "And, Martin?"

"Yes?"

"You were a terrific surgeon and, from what Parsons tells me, you may be an even better GP. Whatever you decide to do going forward . . . I wish you the best. I really do."

I simply nodded and watched as he walked toward the surgical changing room. He was returning to his chosen path and I . . . at the moment, I had no idea where my future lay.

Glossary

BMJ – British Medical Journal; the JAMA (Journal of the American Medical Association) of the UK