Heart of Ice. Diana Palmer

other after their father’s death five years ago, and again after their mother succumbed to cancer three years later. Bernie, a natural mother, liked to bring over casseroles, make sure Patrick kept healthy food in the refrigerator and examine the sprawling Barr mansion to make sure his latest housekeeper was properly cleaning the expanses of glass, tile and blond wood.

      “So who’s the lucky lady?” Bernie indicated the flowers again.

      “Noreen McLanahan called in sick for today’s luncheon.” The event to honor volunteers, of whom Noreen was one of the most prominent, was scheduled for noon at the Serene Beach Yacht Club. “I figured a widow who lives alone could use some cheering up, so I’m going to visit her and give them to her.”

      It wasn’t merely a matter of charity. Mrs. Mc-Lanahan, one of the center’s biggest financial supporters and a member of its board of directors, was a peppery personality whose wry observations always kept Patrick laughing. He’d have treasured her even if she was penniless.

      “You’ve got a kind heart for a grumpy old bachelor,” Bernie said.

      “Gee, thanks.”

      To his surprise, his sister wrapped her arms around him. Although tall and athletic, she only came to his shoulders. “Excuse me for being sentimental, but I’m proud of you.”

      “For taking flowers to a sick woman?” Patrick teased as Bernie stepped back, her cross-training shoes squeaking on the marble floor. “I must be a real creep most of the time if you’re impressed by this.”

      “Yeah, right.” His sister traced a finger along the front table. It came up clean, to her evident satisfaction. The last housekeeper, who’d lasted only six months, had left dust so thick Bernie could write notes in it, and did. “The truth is, you make me feel guilty. I compensate by fussing over you.”

      “Guilty? About what?”

      “About my choosing to give up medical school to stay home and have kids while you’re shepherding our family’s legacy,” she said.

      “You made the best choice for you.” Patrick adored his two young nephews. More than that, his sister’s happy home served as an emotional anchor for him.

      “What about your right to make choices? You never wanted to be an administrator, but you stepped up to bat when you saw the clinic falling apart,” Bernie said.

      “I just wish I’d done it sooner,” Patrick said.

      For as long as he could remember, he’d been fired by a sense of mission inspired by his older sister’s stillbirth. Initially, it had been his motivation for applying to medical school, but later he’d discovered he enjoyed practicing medicine for its own sake.

      He’d been so caught up in his pediatric practice that he hadn’t noticed the toll Doctors Circle was taking on his father. Even the Barr fortune, earned from Joe’s invention of self-cleaning window glass, wasn’t enough to underwrite all the center’s charities and compensate for Dr. Grier’s sloppy management. As chairman of the board, Joe had thrown himself into fund-raising with a frenzy, with the result that he dropped dead of a heart attack.

      Patrick should have realized that the aging man was pushing himself too hard. He should have given up his practice sooner to take on the administrative job.

      He couldn’t turn back the clock. He’d spent five years reorganizing the day-to-day operations and putting the budget on a sound footing, and now he was ensuring the future of Doctors Circle by establishing an Endowment Fund.

      “No one could have forced Dad to slow down,” Bernie said. “He was obsessed with the center, even more than Mom was. I know he was upset about their losing a child, but these things happen to lots of people.”

      “Dad didn’t see it that way,” Patrick said. “Did you know he blamed himself for Melissa’s death?”

      Bernie’s face scrunched in surprise. “No! Why would he do that?”

      “While Mom was pregnant, he spent all his time either at his janitorial job or out in the workshop, fiddling with his inventions,” Patrick explained. “He told me that if he’d paid more attention, he’d have seen how she was suffering and insisted on better care.”

      “They couldn’t afford it,” Bernie said.

      “He’d have borrowed the money if he had to.” Patrick could still see the lines of pain etched in Joe Barr’s face as he’d made this confession. Melissa’s stillbirth had been fresh in the aging man’s memory, even though decades had passed since the unhappy event.

      How ironic that Joe had pulled himself out of poverty, gaining a fortune from marketing his self-cleaning glass, yet had never really enjoyed the money. He’d poured much of it into Doctors Circle, which he’d established fifteen years ago. For Patrick’s father, it had been both a form of atonement and a sacred obligation.

      “I wish I’d known so I could have set him straight,” Bernie said. “Problems with the placenta can’t always be corrected, even now. Mom never blamed him.”

      “I guess when we feel guilty, logic has nothing to do with it,” Patrick said.

      “Are you speaking of yourself?” she asked.

      “Me?”

      “Well, you’re the one driving yourself like a maniac for the Endowment Fund,” she said. “It won’t bring Dad back.”

      “Thanks for trying to make me feel better,” he said. “The truth is, I enjoy my work.”

      “You used to whistle more when you were in pediatrics.” Bernie straightened a large, modern canvas that faced the curving staircase.

      “I whistled?” Patrick didn’t recall that particular habit.

      “You also told more jokes,” his sister said.

      “I collected jokes to make my patients laugh,” he protested. He’d loved working in pediatrics, but what he was doing now was crucial. “Sis, I’ve got to get going. I want to allow plenty of time to visit with Mrs. McLanahan.”

      “Don’t let me stop you. I’m leaving, too. There’s a pot of orange-glazed chicken in the refrigerator, by the way,” Bernie said. “You can eat it tonight or tomorrow.” With a wave, she went out the front door.

      Patrick locked up, then carried the flowers to his car and set them on the rear seat. He eased the finely tooled sedan along the driveway, past the glistening pool.

      He stole a glimpse at the high bluffs. The rear of the estate provided a spectacular view of Serene Beach and its harbor. Far below, September sunlight played over a butterfly swarm of sails.

      The driveway curved left, away from the view. Patrick stopped at the estate’s ironwork arch and waited for traffic to clear on St. Michel Drive.

      In his childhood, this street had been little used. That was before the two-story medical buildings had sprung up on the far side, with their white stucco exteriors and red-tile roofs.

      The family had built Doctors Circle on the land where an orange grove once stood, situated so that the back entrance to the Birthing Center faced the front of their estate. As a result, Patrick didn’t have to commute far to his office.

      Seeing no more cars, he turned right and drove the few blocks to Mrs. McLanahan’s home. To his disappointment, the houseman reported she was sleeping. Patrick left the flowers with a note wishing her a speedy recovery.

      He had plenty of time before the luncheon. All dressed up and nowhere to go. It was a rarity not to have every minute committed, and against his better judgment, he knew what he wanted to do.

      It would be childish to head inland toward Natalie’s apartment. For heaven’s sake, he had almost no chance of glimpsing her unless he parked and rang her doorbell, which he wasn’t going to do.

      This past month, he’d watched for any indication that she hadn’t