17.
Oliver didn't know what to do about Suzanne. They worked together; he
couldn't avoid her. He didn't want to avoid her. She was alive and
vital and _for him_, somehow. He turned toward her like a plant toward
light. That's the problem, he thought the next morning as he drove into
the hospital parking lot. I've been attracted to her all along. I've
flirted with her and leaned on her. I'm a creep.
Holding that thought firmly, he marched by Molly, waved good morning,
rounded the corner, and went directly to Suzanne's office. She wasn't
there. Her light was off. He went back to Molly and asked whether
Suzanne had come in.
"She called in sick, Honey."
"Ah. Too bad."
"She said she'd be in tomorrow."
"What's so funny?" Molly was giggling.
"I asked her what was sick, and she said it was her hair. Her hair was
sick. I wish _my_ hair was that sick. I hope she doesn't go and do
something foolish."
"I like your hair," Oliver said, setting off the flashing "creep" sign.
The phone rescued him. "I'd better get to work."
"First Fundamentalist Hospital," Molly said, her gorgeous drawl
following him around the corner.
At least he had another day to think things over.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233