CHAPTER 37

Darlene opened the car door and slid over halfway to make room.

Lou stayed where he was, scanning the street.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether there are any thick-waisted, bad-tempered, neckless men watching us, and whether your driver can handle himself the way I think he can.”

“Victor is Secret Service and very protective. He shoots anyone who even looks at me cross-eyed, then he asks questions later.”

“Good thing I can’t cross my eyes,” Lou said through the window. “Nice to meet you, Victor.”

“And you, Doctor. Not to worry about the other thing. I have an agent at the end of the street covering our back. Besides, I hear you’re a decent boxer.”

“Only when the other guy isn’t hitting back.”

Lou climbed in next to the First Lady.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Welcome,” Darlene said.

Lou’s throat went dry as he struggled to find his voice. In the ER, he knew he was sometimes known as Dr. Cool, for the way he kept it together even in the worst emergencies. In fact, over the years, he had treated a number of prominent politicians and even a couple of well-known celebrities without losing his objectivity, except once when he asked for a photo signed to Emily from the previous year’s winner of American Idol. But in the presence of this woman, he felt extremely unsettled.

“Please call me Lou,” he managed. “I’ve found that being called doctor often carries with it heightened expectations.”

“I’ve noticed the same thing,” she said, her grip on his hand warm and confident. “Darlene works fine for me.”

“That’s right, you’re a doc. Do you miss it?”

“Only every day.”

“I’m not surprised. Even after all these years and a gazillion patients, I still love it each time I step into the hospital. It’s the one place in the universe where I actually feel like I know what I’m doing.”

Her smile canceled out his self-consciousness. “Same here,” she said. “My office was my sanctuary. I still think I could tell you something special about every single one of my patients. Pardon me for asking, but are you okay? You look a little pale. Sorry if I’m out of place, but once a doctor, always a doctor.”

“And a perceptive one, at that. You’re the second woman who asked me that question in the last hour. My thirteen-year-old daughter, Emily the Sorceress, diagnosed me over the phone as not being my usual bubbly, positive self. Forgive me … Darlene. I didn’t tell Em, but just a day ago, I was being chased through a cornfield by some professional killers who, when they weren’t shooting at me, were trying to run me down with a combine harvester.”

“Ouch! As the daughter of a wheat farmer, I know those harvesters. Thank goodness they’re not too maneuverable.”