Dr. Dad by Judith Arnold Page A

whether it was straight and properly centered on the door, she’d seen something in his eyes, a flash of longing.
    Or maybe it was just her own longing she’d seen. Mirrors could be tricky that way.
    He’d left almost immediately after that moment when they’d stood side by side, gazing at each other through the medium of the mirror. She’d felt bad about his abrupt departure, wondering whether she’d made him uncomfortable. When he’d talked about his wife, she’d sensed that it was a difficult subject for him. If she were more reckless, she would have taken him in her arms and given him a hug.
    The computer hummed. The tea grew tepid in her ceramic mug. She scrolled up the screen and reread what she’d written, altering a word here, adjusting a phrase there.
    The regular writers on the show would have finished this scene by now. But one of them had decided not to renew his contract, and Bill Rowan, the head writer, had been worried that the scripts were getting a little stale after five years. Susannah had written two episodes in the past two years, and when she’d approached Bill with a story line that would give her character a graceful exit out of the show, he’d surprisedher by saying, “You’ve got a knack for this, Susannah. Why don’t you write me a few scripts for next season? You know these characters better than anyone. You could do it—and you could even do it long-distance, if you’re really sure you want to clear out of town.”
    She could do it. She’d been working from scripts for so much of her life that she often found herself thinking in television rhythms, visualizing the world in scenes and camera angles and strings of dialogue. Some actors liked to stretch their creative muscles by directing television shows. She hadn’t given much thought to stretching any creative muscles, but she wasn’t going to slam a door on potential income. If she hadn’t been supporting her parents all these years, she would be rich. But she had been, and she wasn’t.
    She couldn’t say she loved writing, but she didn’t mind it. And she could do it far from the people who’d made her miserable.
    One final glance at the Cole house, and she turned back to her computer. She knew the casting department wouldn’t pay much attention to her description, but she made sure she’d mentioned that the new pediatrician at Mercy Hospital was tall, with a wistful smile and thick brown hair and eyes so dark and haunted that a woman couldn’t help but sigh and shiver a little inside when she gazed into them.
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    â€œR EALLY ? You were inside her house?” Amanda squealed. She always squealed when she got excited.
    Lindsey motioned for her to lower her voice. The cafeteria was pretty noisy, anyway—the fourth-graders they had to share lunch with were so obnoxious—but she didn’t want a teacher’s aide showing up at theirtable to find out what was so exciting that Amanda had to squeal about it.
    â€œYes, I was inside her house,” Lindsey reported. “I was in there a million times when Cathy lived there, don’t forget.”
    â€œIt’s not the same thing,” Meredith pointed out.
    â€œCathy wasn’t a TV star.”
    â€œSo what was it like?” Amanda asked, bouncing in her chair. “I mean, did she have jewels lying around? Or all that gourmet stuff in the kitchen like they use in California? I’ve heard they cook way different in California, like with herbs and raw octopus and stuff like that.”
    â€œShe’s not a very good cook,” Lindsey said, feeling a bit smug because she’d had such extensive personal contact with Susannah Dawson. “I’ve eaten her homemade brownies, and they were kind of dry.”
    â€œYeah, but she baked them. I mean, that must have been so cool, eating something she baked, even if it tasted bad.”
    â€œShe probably