DESTINED AFFECTION

SEVEN

"So what happened with the mushroom kids?" Ally asked as she arranged carrot and celery sticks on a serving platter. "Sorry I couldn't work overtime and help out. Perrie had bowling."

"No problem. Camila stayed. We finally got them all washed out and stabilized around nine." Lauren stirred the sour cream and chives dip and scooped it into a small bowl. "I haven't seen anything like that since I was in college. Thank God I was smart enough then not to try it."

"I'm amazed you recognized it yesterday."

"Classic presentation." Lauren shrugged. "It's right there in the ER manual."

"Sure, and so are about a thousand other things."

"I'm lucky. I have a memory for esoteric facts."

"Uh-huh." Ally knew that there was a reason that Lauren was the ER chief at such a young age. Lauren had been a star, even as a med student. She just had that uncanny sixth sense that made some people true physicians. Lauren had the art as well as the skill for healing. "But we both know it takes more than memorizing what's in the book to recognize it when you see it."

Embarrassed by the praise, Lauren kept her eyes down, busying herself with peeling potatoes for the salad. "Besides, Camila was the one to pick up that something was off. I was just the cleanup batter."

"Right." Ally snorted, separating chicken pieces into separate bowls. "I agree with you about Mila, though. She not only has good hands, she's got good instincts."

Lauren thought about the brunette's hands, about how they were a microcosm of the woman herself. Certain and sure in the midst of a crisis, moving with a surgeon's self-assured touch. Then, surprisingly, so gentle and tender when she had cared for Kyle. A heady mixture, especially in a woman so confident and attractive and—

"Lauren? Hello?"

"Huh?" Lauren jumped, startled. "Sorry. I was...wandering."

"I noticed." Ally cocked her head and gave her friend a long stare. "What's up?"

Lauren shook her head and reached for the onions. "Absolutely nothing."

* * * * *

Camila stood in the middle of her living room and turned slowly, surveying her progress. "Not bad."

She'd jockeyed the two bookcases against the wall opposite the windows and unpacked most of her books. The sofa and the television were situated so she could sit on one and see the other. She needed a coffee table, she realized. She had nowhere to put her feet or her dinner while watching the news. She hadn't acquired much furniture while in Manhattan, because she had subleased a furnished apartment during her year of trauma training. She had planned to buy a place once she had settled into her new position as an attending at St. Michael's. Now, she wasn't sure what she would be doing in another year. 

No point going there. Time to start on the bedroom. She tried to remember where she had seen the box marked Sheets and, on her way down the hall, glanced at the plain, round clock she had hung from a hook in the kitchen. Almost noon. She skittered to a stop.

"Hell. I still have to shower, get dressed, and figure out where to buy wine." A surge of happiness caused her to smile. "Guess I can't do any more unpacking,"

Thirty minutes later, she was clean and dressed in faded jeans, Nike running shoes, and a navy blue polo shirt. She spread out the plastic city street map on the kitchen counter and opened the neighborhood guide next to it. She found an ad for a wine and liquor store in her zip code and traced the street names on the map until she knew how to get there. She slid her wallet into her rear pocket, her keys into her right front one, and set out for the barbecue.