The Awakening of Dr. Brown

Never before in all her memory had she ever pictured a potential lover-or herself-that way. Old. And that thought surprised-even frightened-her.

During the cage’s slow journey upward, noting the way his quiet eyes took in everything-curious but not awed- Phoenix tried out various seduction scenarios in her mind. And dismissed them all out of hand-first because her instincts told her with a certainty that they weren’t going to work with this man, but more so because even the thought of trying one of her usual scenarios out on Dr. Ethan Brown filled her with an urge to burst out laughing. She would feel-and look-ridiculous, she thought, like a grown woman playing child’s games. Sliding her eyes sideways to study him under cover of her lashes, she thanked God for at least giving her the intuition to know that this man did not play-perhaps would not even understand-games.

But, if that was true, she realized, then she was sailing in uncharted waters. None of the rules and guidelines she was accustomed to living by would apply. For the first time since childhood, Phoenix felt unsure of herself.

The cage clanked to a halt. She unlatched the chain-link gate and stepped out onto the loft, then held it for her guest. He followed without hurry, not warily, but looking around with an undisguised interest she found refreshing. But then, everything he did was like that, wasn’t it? Different, somehow. And it occurred to her that there was only a fine line between refreshing and disconcerting.

“Would you care for something to drink?” she asked as she crossed the carpeted floor to the kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the loft only by a curving, granite-topped counter. How useful are these little conventions, she thought as she opened the refrigerator. The grease that eases us through awkward places… “I have…bottled water, diet soda or beer. Oh-and bourbon.”

“Beer sounds good.” He’d stopped at the counter, she saw, not crowding her, conceding her the kitchen…as her personal space? she wondered. Or a woman’s place? Oh, yes, he was just possibly old- fashioned enough to think so.

She hid her smile in the cool emptiness of the refrigerator. “Bottle or glass?”

“Bottle’s fine.”

She selected a bottle of imported beer for him and one for herself and set them on the countertop. The imported brand required an opener, and by the time she’d located one and successfully popped off the tops, her guest had left his post at the counter to go politely exploring. She followed him to where he stood beside the baby grand, gazing at and not quite touching the keys.

“You play?” She held out a moisture-beaded bottle.

His eyes lifted and bumped hers, and the force in them took her by surprise. Her breath caught audibly, the sound thankfully lost in rustles and clinks and a murmured “Thanks…” as he took the bottle from her hand. She had an idea, then, of touching her bottle to his-a tiny toast…a subtle enough promise, suggestive of either comradship or intimacy-but somehow with this man even that small gesture seemed contrived…silly. Instead, she lifted her own bottle to her lips and drank, shielding herself from his gaze with her lashes.

“Not piano,” Ethan said, answering the question he barely remembered being asked. “Just a little guitar.”

He drank some ice-cold beer that scorched his throat. In that one brief glimpse he’d had of her eyes before she’d dropped the familiar curtain across them, there’d been a sense of something eager and innocent, like a little girl offering a handful of just-picked wildflowers. His response to it had been instant and unnerving-a tightening in his throat, a stinging behind his eyelids. And in its aftermath, a pounding in his blood.

“Really?” Her voice was husky and rich with interest. “Where’d you learn to play? Ever do any singing? Play with a band?”

Laughing, he waved her enthusiasm down-shamelessly flattered even though he was well aware her intent was only to disarm him. “Lord, no-to your last question. To the second, only for my own enjoyment-or chagrin. No, wait-I take that back. I sang a solo once. It was ‘The Cheese Stands Alone’-you know, in ‘Farmer In The Dell’? For Parents’ Back-To-School Night. I was in first grade.” He took another sip of beer, shaking his head even now at the exquisite discomfort of the memory. “I’m definitely not a performer.”

“But,” she said softly, “I think you like to sing. And, you play the guitar. Who taught you? Did you take lessons?”

He shook his head. “Dixie taught me-my stepmom.”

“Oh-of course.”

“Not necessarily, actually. Believe it or not, my dad plays, too. And sings-or at least, he used to, when he was young. It was a family thing. He and his brother sang with my grandmother-for church and weddings and funerals, mostly. From what I’ve been told, they were pretty good. My dad stopped singing, though, when his mother-my grandmother-died. She was killed in an automobile accident, along with my grandfather, before I was born…” He stopped suddenly, frowning at his beer bottle, wondering what had possessed him to make such a speech. It wasn’t at all like him. “So,” he said in determined conclusion, “that’s it-my musical history in a nutshell. What about you?”

She stared at him over the top of her bottle, her gaze guileless-and utterly false. “Beg your pardon?”

“What started you-” he nodded in the general direction of the piano “-on the way to being…Phoenix?”

“Doc, I was born singing,” she said. And she turned from him in sudden and complete withdrawal.

Chapter 6

As often as possible, when he was in med school and during his internship, Ethan had sought refuge from the craziness of Los Angeles and the stresses of the hospital by driving up the coast. For someone raised in the heartland, the ocean was a source of endless mystery and fascination, and he’d found that the cold, damp wind and astrigent sea smell helped clear his head. At the same time, the terrifying vastness of it seemed to lend a certain perspective to the tragedy and suffering he witnessed on a daily basis, that might otherwise have become too great a burden to bear.

He’d found pleasure in discovering secret places, stretches of coast as yet unspoiled by developers, where only the footprints of an occasional jogger or horseback rider marred the narrow ribbons of sand that separated the cliffs from the pounding surf and herons came to feed among the rocks at low tide. In the tide pools, he’d found the sea’s small miracles-tiny fish and hermit crabs, and sea anemones that looked like flowers but shrank into all but invisible mud balls when he touched them with a curious finger.

Phoenix’s withdrawal reminded him of that-the shrinking, the sudden transformation from beauty into dull brown nothingness. He felt the same sharp sense of disappointment and, at the same time, fascination.

What had he expected? That she would magically reveal to him things about herself that had been withheld from the rest of the world?

There was, he’d discovered, a great deal about Phoenix the world didn’t know. He’d asked Mrs. Schmidt to find out what she could via the Internet through her computer-smart friend at city hall, but so far all that had netted him was information he could have read off the jacket of any one of her CDs. Phoenix’s existence, it seemed, had begun with the Academy Awards telecast when she’d performed Rupert Dove’s Oscar-nominated song, “Love Child,” from the movie of the same name when she was just fifteen. That song had eventually won her and its composer two Grammys apiece and made Phoenix a household word, but nobody seemed to know anything about her background. There was no mention anywhere of birthplace or family.

Even this place…this loft, Ethan thought, turning from the piano and the shuttered eyes to wander in casual curiosity. Expensively furnished, comfortable enough, even elegant in a Spartan sort of way, but utterly without personality. There were no books or magazines, no photographs or knickknacks, not even a single article of clothing carelessly dropped on a chair. He realized that he was probably somewhat of a slob himself-domestically, at least- after years of bachelor-student living, on a schedule that by necessity put housekeeping far down on the list of priorities, but even so, he found this lack of clutter…lonely.

“You lived here long?” he asked, and was faintly surprised when her husky laugh came from close behind him. After the suddenness and totality of her withdrawal, he hadn’t expected either the laughter or the nearness.

“Because it looks like nobody does?” She moved up beside him, her eyes silvery with amusement. “I don’t live here, actually. This is just temporary, just until the album’s in the can. And the tour…” She left it hanging, her eyes going to the bank of windows that made up one whole side of the loft almost as if they’d been pulled there against her will.