The Fated love : by Radclyffe

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

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

"No problem. Quinn stayed. We finally got them all washed out and stabilized around nine." Honor 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." Honor 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." Linda knew that there was a reason that Honor was the ER chief at such a young age. Honor had been a star, even as a med student. She just had that uncanny sixth sense that made some people true physicians. Honor 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, Honor kept her eyes down, busying herself with peeling potatoes for the salad. "Besides, Quinn was the one to pick up that something was off. I was just the cleanup batter."

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

Honor thought about Quinn'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 Arly. A heady mixture, especially in a woman so confident and attractive and-

"Honor? Hello?"

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

"I noticed." Linda c****d her head and gave Honor a long

stare. "What's up?"

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

Quinn 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.

Once in the liquor store, she took a few minutes to choose both a bottle of red and a bottle of white wine. Then it occurred to her that she should bring something for the hostess.

"Where's Jude when I really need advice?" she muttered to herself. Saxon Sinclair had been more than just Quinn's former boss. The chief of trauma at St. Michael's, and her partner, Jude Castle, a documentary filmmaker, had been good friends. The year of her trauma fellowship had been an intense time when she had spent nearly seventy-five percent of her waking hours in Sinclair's company. In addition to their constant physical proximity and similar professional goals, they had discovered a number of other interests in common. Now Quinn owed her present job to Sax and a great deal of her sanity to Jude.

Giving herself a shake, Quinn took the wine to the counter and paid. Then she stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around for some kind of shop where she could pick up a small thank-you gift for Linda.

"Honor, could you get that?" Linda, up to her wrists in potato salad, asked when the doorbell rang.

"Sure." Honor reached for the dish towel and dried her hands on the way through the house to the front door. She pushed the screen door open and regarded the woman who stood on the

other side with her arms laden with packages. She took in the