"Go to hell."
"I wouldn't put anything past you."
"I was doing my job."
"And here I thought I was speaking confidentially. But you're going to use it, aren't you? The stuff I thought I was confiding to you?"
"You're damn right I am!"
His jaw flexed with rage. He glared at her for several seconds, then marched toward the door. Tiel barged after him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him around. "It could be the best thing that ever happened to you."
He yanked his arm free of her grasp. "I fail to see that."
"It could force you to face up to the fact that you were wrong to run away. Last… last night," she said, stuttering in her haste to make her point before he stormed out.
"You told Ronnie that he couldn't run away from his problems.
That running from them was no solution. But isn't that exactly what you did?
"You moved out here and buried your head in this West Texas sand, refusing to accept what you know to be true.
That you're a gifted healer. That you could make a difference.
That you were making a difference. For patients and families facing a death sentence, you were granting reprieves.
God knows what you could do in the future.
"But because of your pride, and anger, and disillusionment with your colleagues, you abandoned it. You threw out the baby with the bathwater. If this story draws you back into the limelight, if there's a chance it will motivate you to return to your practice, then I'll be damned before I'll apologize for it."
He turned his back on her and opened the door.
"Doc?" she cried.
But all he said was, "Your ride is here."
CHAPTER 17
Tiel's cubicle in the newsroom was a disaster area. It usually was, but more so now than usual. She had received hundreds of notes, cards, and letters from colleagues and viewers, complimenting her excellent coverage of the Davison-Dendy story and commending her for the heroic role she'd played in it. Many were yet to be opened. They had been piled into wobbly, uneven stacks.
There weren't enough surfaces to accommodate the number of floral arrangements delivered over the past week, so she had distributed them to offices and conference areas throughout the building.
Vern and Gladys had sent her a mail-order cheesecake that would have fed five thousand. The newsroom staff had gorged themselves, and there was still more than half left.
As anticipated, she had been the center of attention, and not only on a local level. She had been interviewed by reporters from global news operations, including CNN and Bloomberg. Because of the compelling human ele ment, the love story, the emergency birth of the baby, and the dramatic denouement, the story had piqued the interest of TV audiences all over the world.
She'd been asked by a local car dealership to do their commercials, an offer she declined. National women's magazines were proposing feature articles on everything from her secrets of success to the decor of her house. She was the undeclared Woman of the Week.
And she had never been more miserable.
She was making a futile stab at clearing off her desk when Gully joined her. "Hey, kid."
"I took the rest of the cheesecake to the cafeteria and left it there on a first come, first served basis."
"I got the last piece."
"Your arteries will never forgive me."
"Have I told you what a great job you did?"
"It's always nice to hear."
"Great job."
"Thanks. But it's left me drained. I'm tired."
"You look it. In fact you look like hammered shit." She tossed him a dirty glance over her shoulder. "Just calling it like I see it."
"Didn't your mother ever tell you that some things are better left unsaid?"
"What's the matter with you?"
"I told you, Gully, I'm-"
"You're not just tired. I know tired, and this isn't tired.
You should be lit up like a Christmas tree. You're not your normal, hyperactive, supercharged self. Is it Linda Harper? Are you sulking because she got the jump on you and stole some of your thunder?"
"No." She methodically ripped open another envelope and read the congratulatory note inside. I love your reports on the TV. You're my roll [sic] model. I want to be just like you when I grow up. I like your hair too.
Gully said, "I can't believe you didn't recognize the Doc of standoff fame as Dr. Bradley Stanwick."
"Hmm."
Gully continued, undaunted in spite of her seeming disinterest. "Let me put it another way. I don't believe you didn't recognize him as Dr. Bradley Stanwick."
The change in Gully's tone of voice was unmistakable, and there was no way to avoid addressing it. She laid down the note from the girl who identified herself as Kimberly, a fifth-grader, and slowly swiveled her chair around to face Gully.
He looked down at her for a long moment. Her eyes never wavered. Neither said anything.
Finally, he dragged his hand down his face, the sagging skin stretching like a rubber Halloween mask. "I suppose you had your reasons for protecting his identity."
"He asked me not to."
"Oh." He slapped his forehead with his palm. "Of course! What's wrong with me? The subject of the story said, `I don't want to be on TV,' so, naturally, you omitted an important element of the story."
"It didn't cost your news operation anything, Gully."
Her mood testy, she stood up and began tossing personal items into her bag in preparation of leaving. "Linda got it.
So what are you complaining about?"
"Was I complaining? Did you hear me complaining?"
"It sounded like complaining."
"I'm just curious as to why my ace reporter wimped out on me."
"I didn't-"
"You wimped! Big-time. I want to know why."
She spun around to confront him. "Because it got…"
She stopped shouting, drew herself up, took a deep breath, and ended on a much softer note. "Complicated."
"Complicated."
"Complicated." She reached around him for her suit jacket, lifted it off the wall hook, and pulled it on, avoiding his incisive eyes. "It's sort of like Deep Throat."
"It's nothing like Deep Throat, who was a source.
Bradley Stanwick was an active player. Subject matter. Fair game."
"That's a distinction we should debate sometime. Some other time. When I'm not about to leave for vacation."
"So you're still going?" He fell into step behind her as she left the cubicle and began wending her way through the newsroom toward the rear of the building.
"I need the time away more than ever. You approved my request for days off."
"I know," he said querulously. "But I've had second thoughts. You know what I was thinking? I was thinking that you should produce a pilot Nine Live show. This cancer-doctor-cum-cowboy would be a dynamite first guest. Get him to talk about the investigation into his wife's death. What's his viewpoint on euthanasia? Did he euthanize her?"
"He was motivated to, but he didn't."
"See? We've got a provocative dialogue going already.
You could segue into his participation in the standoff. It'd be great! We could show this pilot show to the suits upstairs.
Maybe air it as a special report one night following the news. It'd be your ticket to the Nine Live hostess spot."
"Don't hold your breath, Gully." She pushed open the heavy exit door leading to the employee parking lot. The pavement was as hot as a griddle.
"How come?" He followed her out. "This is what you've wanted, Tiel. What you've worked for. You'd better grab it, or it could still be snatched away from you. They could give the show to Linda, especially if they ever find out you knew about Stanwick all along. Postpone this trip until this is settled."