Pennsylvania Medical Center (PMC) hospital, a Saturday night
Ren Dunbar adjusted the camera on the microscope to zoom in on the superoxygenated red blood cells in her most recent tissue sample, carefully advanced the O2 microprobe, and turned to her laptop sitting open on the lab bench beside her. Scanning the readouts scrolling across the screen, she gave a mental fist-pump. Yes.
These cells showed a definite improvement in oxygen carrying capacity, exactly what was needed for injured cardiac muscle cells. Busy importing the video of the procedure into her data feed, she absently registered the sound of a door opening and closing somewhere at the far end of the lab and ignored it. Usually at two in the morning, she was completely alone, but sometimes maintenance personnel working the night shift would come in to replace equipment or perform routine cleaning duties. Midnight to six a.m. were her most productive hours, and even when she was on call, she preferred spending the time she wasn’t seeing consults working in the lab rather than wasting time in the OR lounge or on-call room. Quiet and solitude constituted her comfort zone. She flinched at the sound of her name.
“Ren,” Quinn Maguire repeated, stopping beside her.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t hear you come in,” Ren said, trying to hide her annoyance at the interruption.
The surgery chief and program director gave her a quizzical smile. “I had a feeling I’d find you here. Your beeper not working?”
Ren frowned. “Um, I’m not on call, Dr. Maguire. But if you need me for something…”
“No, but I’ve been having a hard time tracking you down. That wouldn’t be because you don’t want to be found, would it?” Quinn leaned her hip against the lab bench and folded her arms, looking relaxed but still very much in charge, which was pretty much how she always looked. Like Ren, she wore forest-green scrubs, the uniform for most surgeons while on duty in the hospital, especially in the middle of the night. At first glance, Quinn always reminded Ren a little bit of her older sister. Both of them were dark-haired, intense, and she guessed the word would be handsome, as attractive or pretty just didn’t quite describe the strength in their faces or the absolute confidence behind their smiles. But Sax was leaner than Quinn and radiated an electric kind of energy twenty-four hours a day. Quinn projected a calm, controlled power that never wavered no matter how urgent the circumstances.
Ren schooled her expression to one of neutrality. She wasn’t hiding in the lab—preferring solitude was different than avoiding company, after all. Not that she thought anyone would actually understand that—no one ever seemed to, although Quinn Maguire was very perceptive. A handy trait for someone in charge of training forty surgical residents, all of whom worked very hard at never revealing any kind of uncertainty or weakness. Or, in Ren’s case, atypical behavior. Fortunately, she’d learned a long, long time ago how to prevent any of her emotions from showing on her face. She was pretty sure she’d successfully abolished even a blush after years of rigorous biofeedback practice. “I’m always very careful to keep my beeper charged and with me at all times when I’m on call.”
“I know that,” Quinn said. “You’ve always answered your pages promptly whenever there’s been a consult or a case that we needed you for. But whenever you don’t absolutely have to be available, I never see you around.”
“My lab projects keep me very busy.”
“No doubt,” Quinn said with a nod. “You might want to join some of the resident functions happening in and out of the hospital for a break now and then, though.”
Ren smiled. She hadn’t really expected anyone to notice her absence, even though she intentionally avoided socializing with fellow trainees. That hadn’t always been true, until she’d learned that just because she wanted to connect with others, the feeling wasn’t necessarily reciprocal. She got along fine with the OR staff and even other residents when it was necessary, but when work didn’t require it, she had no points of intersection, really. Nothing in common with any of the students, and later residents, on her career path.
“I’m very sorry if you’ve been trying to reach me,” she said again.
“You don’t have your voice mail turned on, on your phone.”
Ren shrugged. “I have a new phone, and since I never had any messages on the previous one, I didn’t see the point in setting it up.”
“You might want to,” Quinn said casually. “Congratulations on getting that paper accepted in Circulation, by the way. That’s a real coup.”
Warmth rose through Ren’s chest, and she felt the flush in her cheeks. She couldn’t avoid the response to some pleasures, and professional success was at the top of her list. “Thanks. Rinaldo deserves a lot of credit. If he hadn’t been in charge of growing the tissue samples, we wouldn’t have such great early results.”
“He does, and his name is on the paper right after yours, where it should be.”
Ren almost grinned but smothered it. A twinge of anxiety penetrated the brief glow of pleasure. Quinn Maguire would not have sought her out in the middle of the night just to congratulate her on the culmination of three years of laboratory research. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done or failed to do that could have been a problem. She’d scrubbed on a trauma case a few nights before, but the last time she’d checked the patient, he was doing fine. No one could’ve complained about her. No one really noticed her.
“Do you need me to scrub on a case?” Ren asked.
“No. Mike Wu is taking a leave of absence for the rest of the year,” Quinn said quietly. “He needs to be at home. His mother is very ill.”
“Oh,” Ren said quickly, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
She didn’t know Mike well, but she’d worked with him a few times when her night call obligations had intersected with his coverage of the ER or general surgery. They’d done a few cases together, and he’d been friendly in a distant kind of way, as if he wasn’t exactly sure what her role was, given that she wasn’t part of the normal clinical rotation. Three years in the lab had put her out of step with all the residents who’d started in her year, but being out of step with everyone was the norm for her.
Quinn sighed and said, “You’ve done excellent work on this project—Larry Weatherby is very impressed. I’m sure he’d be happy to recommend you for a faculty position so the two of you could continue to collaborate.”
“That’s good to know,” Ren said quietly, the quick surge of excitement giving way to caution. Her circumstances had always made what should have been straightforward much more complicated. If Quinn noticed her reservations, she didn’t show it.
“I’m sure you’ll have a few more papers once you get all your data analyzed,” Quinn said, “but it’s time for you to finish up your clinical requirements. I need you to take Mike’s place for the rest of the year. You’ve got enough time accumulated in cases from your night call coverage to be able to meet the chief’s year requirement with the rest of the fifth years.”
Ren froze. Full-time clinical rotations now? She’d known she would have to do this in order to finish her residency requirements, but she hadn’t prepared mentally for what it would take to all of a sudden switch from the secluded, protected world of the lab to the much more intimate, and much more ruthless, world of surgical residency.
“When?” she said briskly, reminding herself this was no different than anything else she’d ever had to do. She couldn’t let Quinn see her uncertainty, and she couldn’t be thrown by it either. She’d been uncertain of what she would face more than once before now. She remembered how to steel herself for the unknown, and how to protect herself.
“You’ll start Monday morning on A service. For now I’ve moved Dani Chan over to fill in for Mike. You should talk to her tomorrow to get up to speed on the patients and go over the OR schedule for the week.”
“Right, of course. Thank you.”
“If this is still what you want,” Quinn said gently.
“I’m sorry?” Ren said, lifting her chin. Quinn’s gaze was deep and penetrating, making her feel as if Quinn could see beyond her carefully cultivated shields. Maybe she could—Sax could, and the two of them were so alike. That’s why she’d chosen to train here, after all. That little bit of familiarity helped center her when there was nothing—no one—else. She didn’t blink.
“You made a lot of decisions when you were a lot younger,” Quinn said. “We don’t always know what we want then.”
Ren laughed. She couldn’t help it. At Quinn’s bemused expression, she said, “Dr. Maguire, I’ve been making decisions when I was a lot younger than everyone else my whole life. My age doesn’t have anything to do with my capabilities or my decision-making process.”
“I know you have,” Quinn said, “and Sax is a great role model, but no matter anyone’s chronological age, sometimes we make decisions before we’ve actually experienced the reality.”
“I understand why you might think that,” Ren said as politely as she could, “but I didn’t actually know Sax until I was eleven. I knew of her, but I only met her when I told my father I wanted to go to medical school. He thought that Sax could talk me out of it.”
Quinn laughed. “I can see that didn’t work.”
Ren smiled. “Well, he didn’t really know either one of us. He didn’t raise Sax, and he didn’t understand me. I was in my first year of high school then, but he couldn’t see me as anything but a child.” She shrugged again. Past history. Only one of the many factors that taught her to depend on herself and her own judgment. “Sax was pretty neutral. She talked to me a lot about what the training would be like and how she felt about what she did. And she was…encouraging.”
“It sounds like you’re still sure,” Quinn said.
“I am,” Ren said. “I love the lab, but I don’t want a full-time research career. I just didn’t expect the timing.” She smiled wryly. “But timing has always been one of those things that’s never been routine for me.”
“The timing is right this time,” Quinn said. “If you’re going to apply for a cardiac fellowship, you need to do that now.”
“I hadn’t thought I’d be finishing so soon,” Ren said, quickly calculating how competitive she would be at this point for the fellowship she wanted. On paper her clinical experience would look thin. “My case log won’t be as robust as other residents’ in my year right now.”
“You’ll catch up soon enough,” Quinn said, “and you have your research credentials, don’t forget.”
“Of course.” True, her research might help, but surgical fellowships were clinical positions, and that’s where she needed to stand out. She needed not just cases, but a clinical accomplishment—like the Franklin Surgical Award, granted yearly to the outstanding chief surgical resident—to balance her years in the lab. That’s what she’d need to focus on, in addition to bolstering her case load, for the next year. Now that she had a goal, she started to plan. “I’ll text Dr. Chan right away to make arrangements to review the service.”
“Good. I’ll tell her you’ll catch up with her.”
“Right. Thank you.”
“And Ren,” Quinn said as she turned for the door, “you’ll do fine.”
Ren turned back to the computer and stared at the program, calculating how much she needed to get done before morning. She’d have to do fine. She didn’t have any choice. She tried to recall what she knew about Dani Chan, other than she was one of the transfer residents from a medical center that had lost federal funding and closed their training program. She’d never done a case with Dani, but they’d crossed paths in the ER and trauma admitting a few times. Dani was one of those high-energy, gregarious, personable residents that everyone liked. They would definitely have nothing in common, but that wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t have to work together.
* * *
West Mt. Airy, 3:10 a.m.
Quinn pulled into the narrow drive between their Victorian and the one next to it. On the opposite side, Phyllis’s half of their twin was dark. Her mother-in-law was due back from her latest cruise with friends in a day or two. She closed the Bronco’s door quietly, in hopes of not rousing the neighbor’s ever-vigilant watch-poodle, and walked around to the back porch. A faint light emanated from the kitchen, and she let herself in. The light under the microwave shone dimly onto the stove and left most of the kitchen in shadows, but she could see well enough to make out her daughter and her daughter’s friend Janie at the kitchen table. She glanced at the time on the microwave. Yep. Three fifteen a.m. Way late for Arly to be coming in. Honor would have called her if Arly hadn’t been home by the agreed-upon time, which at a few days shy of fourteen was ten p.m., and judging from their oversized T-shirts and from what she could see beneath the table—shorts and bare feet—they hadn’t just come home. The half-eaten chocolate cake in the center of the table and the crumb-covered napkins in front of them attested to a middle-of-the-night snack.
“Hi,” Quinn said, closing the door gently behind her.
Arly glanced at Janie, and then they both smiled brightly.
“Hi, Quinn,” Arly said.
“Hi, Quinn!” Janie echoed.
Interesting. They didn’t exactly look guilty, but they emanated that too-casual attitude that often meant they were sharing a secret. Of course, that could mean anything from an escapade that didn’t bear repeating to parents to an interrupted discussion of something else—like sex—judged not fit for her ears. Quinn was working hard at giving Arly space to disclose what she wanted to share in her own time. She’d just never realized how hard it would be to let go, even a little, of her need to keep her safe. Honor was much better at it, although she knew it was just as hard for her. She pointed to the cake.
“Can anybody have some of that?”
“Yeah, but you better leave some for Mom,” Arly said.
“Smart plan.” Quinn pulled out a chair, carved off a slice of the cake, and plopped it onto a napkin. As she did, Arly cut several more slices for herself and Janie. The cake was indeed delicious. “So, what have you two been up to?”
Arly glanced at Janie.
“Not much,” they both said simultaneously. Even in the dim light, Janie’s blush was obvious.
Quinn paused. Okay. That had seemed like a neutral question. Apparently not. But since neither of them appeared injured or impaired in any way, whatever they didn’t want to discuss likely wasn’t dangerous.
“Right. Okay then.” Quinn brushed off her hands and gathered up her napkin. “I’ll see you in the morning. You two might want to get some sleep. Jack’s going to be up in a few hours, and he’ll head for your room first.”
“Yeah, right, we’re going,” Arly said.
Quinn took a shower in the upstairs hall bathroom to avoid waking Honor and crept quietly through the darkened bedroom to her side of the bed.
“Baby?” Honor said from the stillness.
Quinn lifted the sheets and slid in beside her. Honor automatically turned into her body, wrapped an arm around her middle, and threw a leg over hers.
“Mm, hi,” Honor murmured and kissed her throat.
Quinn circled her shoulders and stroked her hair, letting out a long sigh. “Hi. You smell good.”
“Shampoo,” Honor murmured.
Quinn chuckled. Honor was the sexiest, most beautiful woman she’d ever known, and she didn’t need to try. Of course her shampoo was more alluring than any perfume she’d ever scented. She kissed her temple. “How was your day?”
“Blessedly boring,” Honor said. “How did the aneurysm resection go?”
“Long, but I think she’s gonna do fine.”
“Good. Everything else quiet?”
Quinn stretched her aching back muscles—too many hours bent over the OR table—and Honor cuddled closer. The tension drained away as the pleasure, and peace, of being with Honor flooded in. “I decided to pull Ren Dunbar out of the lab to take Mike Wu’s place in the fifth year rotations.”
“Ren’s very bright,” Honor said softly, her breath a warm caress against Quinn’s shoulder. “Do you think she’s clinically mature enough?”
“She’s got the cases accumulated, but you’re right—she’d been in the lab longer than usual. She might need a while to get her feet under her. But I think it’s time to see if she can.”
“Mm. Well, you’re a good judge of when they’re ready.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her for a while.” Quinn only wished raising a teenager was as easy. “So, Arly’s downstairs in the kitchen eating chocolate cake.”
“Is there going to be any left?”
“We saved you some,” Quinn said.
Honor sighed. “Wise of you all.”
“True.” Quinn rested her chin against the top of Honor’s head. “Janie is with her.”
“Oh. I thought I heard voices when Arly came in. I was almost asleep, but she was home on time.”
“They’re acting funny.”
“Funny? Like, how funny?”
“That super-casual nothing-going-on-here tone, and the little looks that they don’t think anyone else will notice. Funny like that.”
“Oh,” Honor said in a knowing tone.
“Oh what?”
Honor snuggled closer and kissed the corner of her mouth. “I’m assuming if you thought they were in some kind of trouble you’d mention it, so I’m drawn to another conclusion.”
“Care to share?”
“What kind of secret would you have had when you were their age if your parents walked in on you and a friend in the middle of the night?”
Quinn frowned. The only thing she really wouldn’t have wanted them to walk in on— She peered at Honor, who had a little smile on her face. “What, Janie? Arly and Janie?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“But I thought Arly was interested in Eduardo.”
“She told us she was bi.”
“Oh,” Quinn said. Arly had told them she and her friends were discussing sex. Maybe she’d been preparing them for what came next. And maybe she hadn’t thought of it sooner because then she’d have to think about Arly being ready for sex. “Ah, okay. Do we have to have some kind of rule or something?”
“What else is there? We’ve already had the safe sex talk,” Honor said. “And Arly promised she’d talk to us about anything that bothered her.”
“Yeah, but what about the sex at home thing. Isn’t there some universal rule that you can’t have sex in your mother’s house?”
Honor laughed. “I have no idea. Terry and I didn’t have much of a chance to find out, since Phyllis caught us practically the first time we’d ever had sex, and that was on the back porch in a hammock. Phyllis just told us in the future to pick a safer—and more private—place. To us that spelled Terry’s bedroom, and Phyllis, bless her, always pretended not to notice.”
“Yeah, but Phyllis was ahead of her time.”
“Well, we should be with the times, don’t you think? And where would a safer place for them be than here? It’s not like we want her having sex in the back seats of cars or who knows where.”
Quinn digested that for a moment. “What if it’s Eduardo?”
“I don’t see that it’s any different.” Honor propped herself up on an elbow, enough moonlight coming through the unshaded window to illuminate her face. She studied Quinn. “Do you?”
“Knee-jerk, yes. But then when I think about it, no. We never told Arly she couldn’t have sex. We’ve got reasonable safe sex rules in place, and she’s the best kid I’ve ever known. So we’ll just pretend we don’t know about it?”
“We expect her to pretend she doesn’t know we’re having sex,” Honor pointed out and slid on top of Quinn. “Besides, would you want your parents giving you little knowing looks if you’d just had sex?”
“God, no. Please don’t even go there.” Quinn groaned. “And if you want sex anytime soon, please stop talking about my parents.”
“How about we stop talking altogether,” Honor murmured, kissing Quinn in that way she did when she was making it clear exactly what she wanted.
Lost in the heat of Honor’s body and the familiar excitement of her kisses, Quinn forgot about teenagers, house rules, and long-ago mishaps. This, right here, was her world, and all that mattered. She framed Honor’s face, kissed her back, and gently tilted her hips to roll them over. Holding herself up with her arms on either side of Honor’s shoulders, she kissed Honor’s throat. “I’m in a mood to take my time.”
Honor shuddered and wrapped her arms around Quinn’s shoulders. “Let’s see how long you last.”