LITMIR.BIZ

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the kinks, he stretched upward and went to his locker. The day’s personal mail, picked up earlier from the office was stuffed inside, unopened. Flipping through the stack, two caught his eye. His pulse accelerated. Could it be?

      He took the innocuous-looking envelopes to a chair and sat down again to slide a finger beneath the flap and remove the letter. As he read, the depression of moments before sailed away. He scanned faster, coming to the final conclusion. They wanted him.

      “All right!” he exclaimed.

      Growing more energized with every minute, he ripped open the other envelope. After another quick scan, he pumped a fist in victory. “Yes. Yes. Yes!”

      He was tempted to jump up and do a happy dance around the empty lounge. This little trick could put him on the map as one of the premier neonatal surgeons on the planet.

      Several months ago—he’d forgotten how many—he’d submitted his research and findings on a technique he’d perfected that helped protect a newborn’s still developing brain from damage during a cardio-pulmonary bypass. The science was good. The technique precise. The results stunning.

      Now, he held not one, but two letters asking to publish his findings. Both the American Journal of Medicine and the British Lancet, two of the most prestigious medical journals in the world, wanted the article. The news would put his name on the lips of every pediatric surgeon and elevate his status among the powers that be here in Boston. He wanted to be one of the youngest chiefs ever, and the goal grew closer with every breath.

      This wasn’t his first publication, but it was the most important. The drive to perfect surgical techniques in newborns was like a living thing inside him. The fate of tiny little human beings with all their lives spread out before them rested in his hands and inside his brain.

      The more he studied, the more he tweaked medications and methods, the more lives he saved. These acceptances were more motivation to burn the midnight oil. Who needed rest when so much was at stake?

      Needing someone to share his excitement, he whipped out his cell phone and punched in his father’s number. The congressman would be proud of this.

      “Cooper?” Randall Sullivan’s voice, strong and confident boomed into his earpiece. “Is that you?”

      “Yes, sir. How are you and mother doing?” Get the niceties out of the way first.

      “Hale and hearty. Busy as the devil himself.”

      “I won’t keep you long, but I did have something to tell you.” A zing of adrenaline had him tapping his foot.

      “Hold on a minute, son. I’ve got another call. Governor Bryson’s office.” A click and then silence. Cooper stared down at the letter, rereading the good news while he waited.

      Another click and then his father’s voice again, robust and oratorical even to family. “Still there?”

      “I’m here, Dad.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, the acceptance letter dangling in front of his eyes.

      “Good. I was about to call you with the news. Cameron’s decided to make a run for state office. The party thinks he has a good chance. Youth, looks, charisma.”

      “With the Sullivan machine behind him?”

      Congressman Sullivan’s laugh boomed. “Absolutely.”

      Cooper’s younger brother had followed the rules of the Sullivan household and gone into law with an eye to politics. Cameron was now viewed as the good son. Not that Cooper was complaining. Cameron’s natural propensity for their father’s profession took some of the pressure off Cooper. Some, but not all.

      Congressman Randall Sullivan dreamed of creating a political dynasty to rival the Kennedy clan. The trouble was his elder son had not cooperated, and this had caused more than a little tension within the family.

      “Cam’s still young, Dad. He needs to be certain this is what he wants.”

      “Jack Kennedy was in the Oval Office at forty-three. A man has to make his move when the climate is right. That’s politics. If you had stayed the course, you’d be in the Senate by now.”

      The censure was there, subtle, but sharp like a sticker in a sock.

      “Dad,” he said simply, not wanting to revisit this old wound.

      “This is what you were born for, Cooper, what your mother and I reared you to do with your life. The Sullivans are public servants. It’s our responsibility to care for those less fortunate. There’s still time for you to throw your hat in the ring. I know the party would be interested. Two Sullivan brothers running for office this election year would make great press and garner big voter turnout.”

      Cooper bit back his usual argument. Putting broken hearts back together was public service. Sure he was paid well, but so was the congressman.

      “I’m a doctor.” He glanced at the letter, wanting to say that he wasn’t just a doctor, he was a good doctor, a surgeon moving up through the ranks at a rapid pace. But the senator was only interested in one game, and it wasn’t medicine.

      His fingers tightened on the acceptance letter, euphoria seeping out like a leaking oxygen tank.

      “A good strategist can use the doctor angle,” his father was saying. “The surgeon who comes to politics to heal society’s wounds. Something like that. What do you say?”

      “I don’t think so, Dad. I’m—”

      “Don’t say no yet. Think about it. That’s all I’m asking. Think about it.”

      Trying to talk to his father was like spitting into the wind. He was always the one who was sorry.

      “Okay, son? You’ll do that for the old man, won’t you? Think about it?”

      Cooper swallowed against the tightness in his throat. This was why his father was one of the most influential men in the state. He knew how to get what he wanted. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

      Truly, he was sorry. Sorry to be a disappointment. Sorry he couldn’t be what his father needed and wanted him to be.

      The silence that extended from his father’s line to his buzzed for several painful seconds before the congressman cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was tight with disapproval.

      “We’ve got our first fund-raiser for your brother scheduled on the thirtieth. I hope you can find it in your busy schedule to be there.”

      Cooper didn’t miss the subtle jab. “I’ll be there. Tell Cam to let me know if I can help in any other way.” Short of running with him.

      “Will do. Now, wasn’t there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

      Cooper glanced once more at the letter, crumpled in one corner by his ever-tightening fingers. The joy he’d wanted to share with someone close was so far gone he couldn’t even remember what it had felt like. “Nothing important.”

      “All right then. You’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting to attend. Senator Steiner thinks he can sway my vote on that worthless bridge project of his.” He chuckled roughly. “Maybe I’ll let him if he makes all the right noises about helping Cameron. Come for dinner on Sunday. Make your mother happy.”

      It was more of a command than an invitation. “I’ll be there. Thank you, sir.”

      As deflated as a child’s balloon, he flipped his cell phone closed and stared at the criss-cross pattern in the tile floor. He shouldn’t let his father get to him, but he always did.

      It would be different when he made chief. The congressman would see far more advantage in a position of prominence than just being a member of the team. No matter how prestigious the group, according to his father, Sullivans weren’t team members. They were the head man. Anything less was not acceptable.

      In a fit of frustration, Cooper wadded the letter into

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