Prognosis: Romance (Doctors in Training 4)

Chapter Seven

It was after ten when James drove Shannon home from the dinner theater that night. She had suggested they meet at the theater, but he’d gently overridden her that time. It was much more efficient to share a car, he’d pointed out, deciding he’d have better luck with that argument than to voice concerns about her safety leaving the theater well after dark. She had conceded without argument, but he could tell she didn’t entirely buy his reasoning.

He had to be at the hospital in less than eight hours, but he was in no hurry to leave her. He’d had a good time with her that evening—as he always did—even though she’d been pretty much railroaded by her family into accepting his company.

It had occurred to him during the evening that his parents would have hated every minute of the outing. The food at the theater had been buffet-style, simple meats and veggies and casseroles aimed to please a variety of tastes, especially the middle-aged and senior citizens who seemed to make up the majority of the patrons. He and Shannon had definitely been among the younger diners. The play that had followed dinner had been a rather silly comedy, and the actors, while talented, had played their parts broadly with frequent winks toward the laughing audience.

“I was surprised you’d never seen that play before,” Shannon commented as he turned the car into her driveway. “It’s been done by a zillion community theaters and touring productions, and it was made into a 1950s movie musical.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d expressed surprise that he’d been unfamiliar with the lightweight comedy. “Have you not seen many plays?” she asked, still trying to ferret out the reason.

He shrugged as he put the gear shift into Park. “Yes, quite a few, actually. My parents made sure we attended the theater occasionally while I was growing up. But they wouldn’t have appreciated that play. They favored heavily intellectual, metaphorical plays—the bleaker, the better. They hated musicals and were generally disdainful of comedies.”

“Ouch. So you were watching Chekov plays as a child?”

“When my parents were in the mood for lighter fare,” he answered with a wry chuckle.

“So they placed no value at all on occasional escapism? On simple entertainment?”

“According to Professor Bruce Stillman, Ph.D, contemporary entertainment is nothing more than mental thumb-sucking for lazy adults. They don’t own a television and their very extensive library is filled with classics and obscure literary tomes. My dad insists the only good fiction is the kind that illuminates, dissects and evaluates. A happy ending is never a sign of quality writing, at least in his exalted opinion.”

“Boy, he’d hate my extensive collection of mysteries and romantic-suspense paperbacks.”

James chuckled. “Yes, he would. He doesn’t know I’ve become a connoisseur of mysteries and thrillers in the past couple of years. I even watch an occasional scripted television program, though trying to keep up with med-school studies doesn’t give me a lot of time to watch TV. My friend Ron has been introducing me to the pleasures of science-fiction films. He’s hooked on them.”

“So the play tonight must have seemed really silly to you. And the food was hardly gourmet…”

“I had a great time tonight,” he interrupted firmly when she seemed to be apologizing for the evening’s entertainment. “And I was watching the other people in the theater with us. Some of those older audience members were laughing so hard they were having to wipe tears from their eyes. Unlike my father, I see nothing wrong with people escaping their problems for a few hours to enjoy laughing with their friends. Since I’ve become close to my study-group friends, I’ve learned to appreciate the value of laughter to mitigate stress and anxiety.”

“To mitigate stress and anxiety?” she repeated in a murmur.

He frowned, not quite certain how to interpret her tone.

Maybe he’d told her too much. He didn’t usually share so many details about his childhood with his pedantic parents. He certainly hadn’t been angling for sympathy—he’d told her before that his past had been one of privilege, certainly not deserving of pity. Instead, he’d wanted to give her a little glimpse into his past so she could understand him a little better, something that was becoming increasingly important to him.

He really was lousy at this communication thing, he thought glumly.

She reached for the bag sitting by her feet. “It’s getting late and I know you have to work early.”

He glanced at the house, which was dark except for one dim light shining through what he assumed was the living room window. “Has your housemate already gone to bed?”

“No, Devin’s working tonight. We usually try to leave enough lights on to make people think someone’s home. Guess she forgot tonight. She runs late sometimes and gets kind of scatterbrained.”

He reached for his door handle. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

“That’s not—”

He was already sliding out of the car. He knew Shannon didn’t like to be overruled, but he wanted to make sure no one was lurking in the bushes or waiting inside the darkened house, paranoid though that sounded. His father would probably attribute his heightened imagination to the thrillers he’d been reading lately. Remembering one particularly gruesome scene he’d read only a couple nights before, he moved closer to Shannon as she dug in her purse for her door keys.

She unlocked he

r door by the illumination of the softly glowing porch light, then turned to him with lifted eyebrows. “Okay, I’m safely home. Are you satisfied?”

He glanced down at her with a faint smile. “Not by a long shot.”

Her lashes lowered, then swept back up so that she met his gaze squarely. “I’m not inviting you in. This time.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” he replied equably, though he made note of her addendum. He liked the possibility that there would be a next time—and that there was a chance it would end a bit differently than this one.