Standin' On the Edge (2/6)
RJ Ferrance, DC, MD (rferrance@VCU.ORG)
Tue, 6 Feb 2001 12:33:03 -0500
He'd been unusually quiet (for a guy) on the trip south to Cape Hatteras,
his eyes continually scanning the sea before them, occasionally making their
way across the radar screen and the bank of gauges and indicators on the
helm. He seemed reserved almost to the point of being withdrawn, not at all
the professional charmer Amanda had described him to be. At the restaurant,
though, he began to show some signs of life. Finally. He managed to hold
up his end of the conversation, and he behaved like the proper gentleman
she'd been promised.
Cheesecake appeared on the red linen tablecloth before her as the waiter
poured coffee for Brennan. She shook her head no in response to the silent
question. No sense ruining her well-earned Champagne buzz with caffeine.
She watched the waiter's retreating back a moment before turning back to
Matt. "Thank you for giving me a place to stay," she said. She'd already
told him why she'd wanted to leave New York in such a hurry, leaving out
much of the emotional detail.
Matt shrugged. Was that a hint of an embarrassed smile she saw there?
"Amanda snapped her fingers, I jumped," he said, his eyes scanning the crowd
once again. He was either the most observant person she'd ever met, or the
most paranoid. "It's a conditioned response I've not yet worked to free
myself of."
That earned him a short laugh. "She can be... persuasive," Michelle noted.
The power Amanda obviously held over this man was almost frightening. "You
two go back a long way, I take it?"
Matt stirred a huge amount of milk and sweetener into his coffee and then
tapped the spoon against the cup's edge. "Way back," he verified without
bothering to explain.
Secretive. Answering questions with enough information to not seem rude,
but not enough information to tell her anything. That would make her
assignment that much more difficult. And yet, that much more rewarding.
The waiter reappeared, this time with the black leather folder that held
their check. "Anything else for you or the young lady this evening, sir?"
"No, thank you," Matt answered for them. "The meal and the service have
been excellent, as always."
"Thank you, sir. I'll take this whenever you're ready."
"Young lady?" Michelle scoffed quietly once the waiter had disappeared
again. "Fifty years from now - a hundred years from now," she corrected,
her frustration showing, "and they'll still be calling me a young lady."
Matt's partial smile was back. "There are worse things they could call
you," he pointed out. "Stick with Amanda long enough, and you may well hear
some of them."
Her forehead was tingling a bit from all the champagne, and it tingled even
more as she brought her eyebrows together in disgust. "Am I not ever
allowed to grow up?" she complained petulantly.
"I'd say that's up to you, Michelle," Matt told her in what must have been
his best fatherly and patient tone. She suppressed a groan as she watched
him begin to channel Ward Cleaver. "Right now, you act young and therefore
you seem young - partly because you are, and partly because you've studied
under Amanda, who has acted young all her life."
Michelle started to pout, before she realized that would only prove his
point. "Well, how can I look older?" she asked.
"Older isn't so much the point, is it?" he asked her. "Seeming more mature
would be a better goal."
She rolled her eyes. "I'll concede your point if you'll answer the
question," she groaned.
He seemed to have to ponder it a moment. "I barely know you, Michelle," he
pointed out. "Certainly you don't want me to critique your... Well, you."
"Why not?" she asked. "You've got a few years on me, certainly you've got
some wisdom you can pass along."
"A few years," he muttered under his breath. "A few powers of ten...." Her
expectant look didn't go away, and in fact, she cranked it up a notch.
"Really, it's best not to get me started. I've been accused of droning on
and on when not cut off early." She didn't waver, and finally, he shook his
head. "Just remember, you asked for this." He sighed. "First, you need to
listen more than you talk. It is both wise, and polite, to fully listen to
what one is saying. Or at least... pretend that you are." She started to
open her mouth to protest, but his amused warning look stopped her. She
forced her mouth closed and sat back against the chair. "As I said, seeming
older is actually a process of seeming more... mature. More sophisticated.
Sophisticates rarely are impressed and even more rarely admit it."
She slowly cocked her head slightly to one side, lifted an eyebrow just a
touch and asked, "Indeed?"
"Perfect," he complimented her, rewarding her with what was almost a smile.
"That helps with the most important thing you need to project - an
effortless expression of both confidence and inner calm. Use very
understated facial expressions. And every once in a while, look thoughtful,
as though you're giving a person's words serious consideration. Or give a
thoughtful frown, as if you're disapproving of something."
She rested her chin in her hand and put a finger to her lips, working on the
thoughtful expression. "Like this?" she asked.
"More or less," he told her.
"Got it," she said at once.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "Never respond so quickly. Always give
a beat - a contemplative pause. This helps you with the whole aloof
persona. Aloof, by the way," he explained, "is a nautical term. It means
'to windward of'. To 'stand aloof' was to maneuver one's ship between the
enemy and the wind and wait there, ready to attack, with the wind in one's
favor."
She paused just a moment, lifting an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. "You
know this, I would assume," she said quietly, "from personal experience?"
His face lit up in approval of her demonstration. But not his eyes. Why
was that? she wondered. "So you have been paying attention," he told her,
offering his coffee cup in toast to her.
Her look turned slightly questioning, then she used the mild, thoughtful
frown. "Evading my question, Captain Brennan?" she asked.
He leaned slightly closer, his eyes never leaving hers as they danced with
long-held memories. "Admiral Brennan," he told her in barely more than a
whisper. "Privateer, then Continental Navy, long since retired."
The champagne caught up with her then and she laughed, hanging her head
until she had to push the long black hair back away, out of her eyes. His
attention, now that it was finally focused upon her, felt intense and, well,
damned good. But then, she'd never really suffered from a lack of attention
from men.
"One more question," she tried as the waiter clandestinely lifted the
leather folder from the table and headed away. "With all this charm and
grace.... Why is there not a Mrs Brennan?"
The smile slipped, but just a bit. He stood and offered his arm to her,
which she gracefully accepted. "There have been several," he told her.
"Just none since 1923."
^--*-*-*--^
The trip back wasn't as quiet. He talked more. She talked more. They
laughed some.
He pointed out constellations in the cloudless ink of the sky, and although
they still didn't look anything like the animals or gods they were named
for, she could at least pick some of them out after his tutorial. With her
head growing heavier, and the boat's course through the gentle waves rocking
her steadily closer toward sleep, she'd let Matt wrap her in a blanket and
had curled up in the corner of the small pilothouse.
The sea and the sky blended into one blackness beyond the boat's lights.
Michelle watched Brennan from her little corner of the darkness, wondering
if he really was everything Amanda had described, everything she'd
predicted. Amanda had spoken of him, laughing with amusement and fondness,
as 'another member of the Immortal Boy Scout Troop'. So far, Michelle was
inclined to agree. And while Matt probably saw that as a virtue, that
trait, more than anything else, made him one of the easiest marks she'd
tracked.
She must have dozed, because her next awareness was that of his hand on her
shoulder, gently shaking her awake. The boat's motion had all but stopped,
and as she stood, with his arm steadying her, she realized the boat was
again tied at the pier. He helped her back onto the dock, and a moment
later they were inside the house, having followed the welcoming beacon of
the flickering candle in the window.
"The guest room has its own bathroom," he told her, giving her the quick
tour. "I'm up early, but there's no reason you should be." She had lagged
a few steps behind him, still wrapped in the blanket from the boat to ward
off the sea air's chill which seemed to have followed her even into the
house. The plush carpeting was like quicksand beneath her feet, and she
used the photographs that virtually covered both walls in the hallway as an
excuse to stop for a moment.
The photos varied widely in subject and location. Many were taken on the
beach or out on the water, but many were indoors. The were the kind of
pictures one used to document one's own life. Except it wasn't Brennan's
life that was documented. The face that recurred most often was that of a
very petite but enthusiastic woman with long flowing hair and a smile that
quickly captured attention.
Most of the photos that included Brennan also included the woman with the
captivating smile. Including one where they stood side by side in a sea of
white coats on the steps of some urban building or another. She counted the
heads, then followed the legend at the bottom, naming the attending
physicians and housestaff of the Pediatric Department at the Medical College
of Virginia.
"Dr. Theresa Martinez," she read aloud.
"Yes," he said quietly, his voice closer than it should have been. Her eyes
refocused, finding his reflected image in the photo's glass cover.
"She's...." She spent a moment trying to formulate a question. A lover? A
friend? A close colleague? Another complication to her task?
"Dead," he said simply, saving her the awkwardness. "This house was once
hers." He started back down the hallway away from her.
That raised at least as many questions as it answered. "Matthew?" she asked,
turning to face him. He stopped and waited expectantly, but the look in his
eyes sapped her resolve. "Thank you again," she said. "It's been a lovely
evening."
His parting smile was sad, and then his door closed between them.
^--*-*-*--^
****************************************************
RJ Ferrance, DC, MD
Combined Internal Med/Pediatrics Resident
Medical College of Virginia Hospitals
Richmond, VA 23298
rferrance@vcu.org
http://views.vcu.edu/~medtoast/anvil.html