Where There's Smoke

“So this is it? This is what you’re so reluctant to leave?”

Randall had strolled through the rooms of the clinic and wound up in Lara’s private office, where she’d been packing books and files. He’d flown fro

m National Airport to Dallas/ Fort Worth and leased a car for the two-hour drive to Eden Pass.

For hours before his arrival, media vans had been cruising the street in front of the clinic on the lookout for him. When he arrived, reporters and cameramen flocked to him in impressive numbers.

His ordeal in Montesangre had atoned for the scandal involving his wife and Senator Tackett. Like a wayward child who’d taken his punishment and turned over a new leaf, he’d been warmly received by the president and the Department of State. Having experienced the Montesangren culture from the inside out, he was its reigning expert on Capitol Hill. He was newsworthy.

Lara remained indoors while Randall conducted an impromptu press conference. After fielding questions for several minutes, he begged to be excused.

“My wife and I have had very little time alone since our return. I’m sure you can understand.”

After some good-natured snickering, they reloaded their Betacams and microphones into their vans and left. Many honked and waved as though bidding goodbye to a chum.

Now dusk was gathering outside, but Lara hadn’t turned on the lamps in her office. The semidarkness was more in keeping with her mood. It also hid the dark circles beneath her eyes.

Knowing she would never see Key again, she had cried herself into a stupor following his angry departure the night before. He’d left hating her. Her sense of loss was wrenchingly painful and came close to how she’d felt when she regained consciousness in Miami and realized that the terrible nightmare she’d had was indeed real.

Finally, sometime around 2:00 A.M., she garnered the wherewithal to make her way to bed, where she’d lain awake until dawn. She’d spent the day packing her belongings, working feverishly between lapses of immobilizing depression in which her hands were rendered useless and she stared vacantly into space through dry, gritty eyes.

The gloaming made the office feel cozier, warmer, safer, a refuge for her abject despair. She had come to like Dr. Patton’s paneled walls and masculine furniture and wished she could look forward to years of enjoying this office.

“It’s so provincial,” Randall observed as he dropped onto the leather love seat.

“The equipment is modern.”

“I’m talking about the whole setup. It’s not like you at all.”

He didn’t have a clue as to what she was like. “Sick people aren’t confined to cities, Randall. I could have had a good practice here.” She folded down the flaps of a cardboard box and sealed it with duct tape. “That is, if I’d been given a decent chance to cultivate one.”

“Tackett territory.”

“Indisputably.”

“I’m curious about something.” He crossed his legs with the negligent elegance of Fred Astaire. “Why in God’s name, when you had the whole continent to choose from, did you elect to practice here? In Texas of all places,” he said with obvious distaste. “Why pick the town where you’d be most despised? Do you have a bent toward masochism?”

She had no intention of recounting for Randall the last three years of her life. In fact, she had no intention of letting him stay beneath her roof. Before sending him away, however, there was one thing she wanted him to know.

“It wasn’t easy for me to pick up my career where it left off,” she began. “Even though I had been badly injured and had lost my child and my husband to a bloody revolution, people were slow to forgive. I was still considered Clark’s bimbo.

“I applied for staff positions at hospitals all over the country. Some even hired me on my credentials alone before linking Dr. Lara Mallory with Mrs. Randall Porter, whereupon I was sanctimoniously asked to resign in the best interests of the institution. This happened a dozen times at least.”

“So you finally decided to hang out your shingle. I suppose you used my life insurance money for financing. But that still doesn’t explain why you chose to practice here.”

“I didn’t buy the practice, Randall. It was deeded to me free and clear. By Clark.” She paused for emphasis. “It was one of the last official things he did before his death.”

It took him a moment to assimilate the information. When he did, he sucked in a quick breath. “Well, I daresay. He was buying absolution for his sins. How touchingly moral.”

“I can only guess at his motivations, but yes, I think he felt he owed me this.”

“Now I suppose you’re going to present me with a bill. What do I owe you for accompanying me to Montesangre?”

“A divorce.”

“Denied.”

“You can’t deny me anything,” she said vehemently. “Key and I saved you from imprisonment in that miserable place! Or have you already forgotten? Has your instant fame wiped your memory clean?”