The Couple Most Likely To. Lilian Darcy

Too horrible. How could she already have begun to talk about “trying again”? He’d started to pick fights with her and push her away and…

      Yeah.

      Hardly a surprise that their relationship hadn’t survived, despite the chemistry and the sense of two souls entwined. “If you could stand in front of the wall…?” Stacey said.

      He stood in front of the wall.

      “And smile…?”

      He stretched his lips. She took the shot and showed it to him on the little screen.

      “Oh, hell!” he muttered. He looked like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car. “Could we try that again? I mean, I don’t want to scare my patients.”

      She laughed unsteadily. “I think it was my fault. I’ll give you more time.”

      He shouldn’t need more time. It was an ID card photo, for heaven’s sake, not the front cover of People magazine. “It’s fine. I’m ready.”

      “Um, I’m not. This little green light has to come on. Just a sec.” She fiddled again and he watched her while she was unaware.

      She looked incredible. Older, of course, but better. Way better. He’d never understood men who couldn’t see the beauty in a woman once she passed thirty. Stacey’s beauty had a ripeness to it now, an emotional depth behind it that couldn’t have been there at eighteen, even though she’d already been mature and grounded back then.

      Her figure had grown a little more womanly, with soft curves in all the right places and a grace to her movements that said she knew who she was and was happy with herself. Above her deep blue eyes, her eyelids had tiny, curved creases at their outer corners, as if she had plenty of reasons to laugh and smile. She wore a pleated silk skirt with a pattern like watercolor painting and he could hear the faintest swish of fabric when she moved.

      As she examined the uncooperative camera, her honey blond hair fell forward to brush and then mask her face and out of the blue he had another flash of memory, this time about the night they’d conceived Anna, in the backseat of his car after the senior prom. Stacey had had her hair professionally piled on top of her head…it had fallen down as they’d made love…longer back then…tumbling in the dark…glinting with gold…brushing his chest…brushing his—

      “Okay, one more time,” she said. “Smile!”

      He did, and this time when she showed him the photo he thought the whole world would be able to track the erotic direction of his thoughts. “This one shouldn’t scare them,” he blurted out.

      “No.” She took a quizzical look at it. “They might want your phone number.” She grinned suddenly, making her eyes widen and her arched eyebrows lift higher. Again he remembered. Her smile had always shone at a million watts. The grin didn’t last. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.” She raked her lower teeth across her top lip.

      “It’s fine. Forget it.” He watched her go to the computer to enter his name and set the machine up for printing and laminating the card. He found the sudden silence unbearable, because it gave him too much time to feel astonished at the fact that all the chemistry was still there. “Back at the day-care center, those were your kids?”

      Something to say.

      Small talk, in any other situation.

      Between the two of them it was anything but.

      She nodded, still looking at the screen. “Max and Ella. Uh, the marriage didn’t make the grade, though. You probably worked that out.”

      “Mmm, yes. I was sorry to hear it.”

      More than sorry, but he couldn’t identify the feeling at first.

      When he did identify it, he was shocked at himself yet again. At some primal male level, he was basically ready to find out if Stacey needed the man killed—preferably by burying him in the fresh concrete foundations of a large building. Sleeping with the fishes had a certain ring to it, also. How come he’d never thought to cultivate a few useful mob connections for exactly this kind of occasion?

      “John has them this weekend,” she said. “John Deroy. My ex. He’s good. He wants to stay involved. He lives in Olympia, now.”

      He could see how much she struggled with this, and it didn’t surprise him. She would be the kind of mother who found it difficult to spend any time away from her children, especially since they were so little. He wondered what had gone wrong with the marriage, so soon after what presumably had been a joyful birth.

      “So at least when they’re with your ex, you get some time to yourself,” he said. Too gently. She probably wouldn’t be happy to know how easily he’d read her emotions.

      She didn’t seem to want his empathy or understanding. “Yep, and I par-tay!” she said, mocking herself. “Woo-hoo!” She shimmied her hips and did some moves with her hands.

      “I have to tell you, your imitation of a party animal is pathetic, Handley.”

      “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be, Logan, if I was wearing the right shoes.” She did a little Charleston dance kick in his direction, as if spiking him with a deadly heel.

      They laughed.

      And looked at each other.

      And stopped, mutually appalled.

      Handley and Logan.

      Sheesh, had they hit a time warp? How could they have dropped so quickly into the hard-edged teasing routines they’d enjoyed so much back in high school? That was half a lifetime ago. They’d gone in such totally different directions since then. They should have forgotten all of it. The chemistry, the connection, everything.

      “Anyhow…here it is,” she said, producing the freshly laminated ID card, complete with holographic security logo. She gave it to him, and it still felt warm from the machine. He noted how carefully she avoided touching his fingers during the transaction, as if she didn’t dare to risk the burn.

      “On to the tour,” he said.

      They both behaved impeccably.

      Mechanically.

      Dishonestly.

      She showed him the O.R. suite, the maternity floor, the outpatient clinic rooms, the E.R., staff cafeteria and gift shop. “If you need a newspaper, or to mail something.” They encountered the head of the ob-gyn department on his way to a C-section delivery, and he and Jake exchanged quick greetings. Stacey spoke to several more people on their journey through the hospital, always with a smile or a question about their day. He could tell that she was both respected and liked. Relied upon, also, judging by the queries she fielded and the cheerfully efficient answers she gave.

      “Leave it on my desk…Call me or Hannah next week…Put something in writing—just a few lines—and I can look into it.”

      Then she took him to the adjacent Children’s Connection building, where he would see infertility patients and sometimes supervise the prenatal care of women who planned to give away their babies through the center’s highly regarded adoption program.

      Highly regarded, but he knew there had been some problems two or three years ago. He’d been working in Australia then, and couldn’t remember a lot of detail, nor where his information had come from. Something about babies being kidnapped, IVF mix-ups and adoptions that had emerged as shady. At his job interview, he’d been assured by the Children’s Connection’s Director of Adoption Services, Marian Novak, that the problems had been sorted out.

      If Stacey had more detailed information, she didn’t mention it, and he asked her on an impulse, as they crossed back to the hospital, “How long have you been working at Portland General?”

      “Since I went back to work after the twins were born. I used to work at Portland University Medical Center, but this position was a step up. It’s only part-time for the moment, but I’ve been told