LITMIR.BIZ

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the start of winter, we’re full, but I’ve placed you on the waiting list. You’re number three.”

      Beth stood and began the five-block walk back toward Luie’s Deli. Number three on the waiting list wasn’t good enough; she needed to be number one. And she’d already tried other shelters, but because Chicago had just had its first real cold snap, everything was full. Some new year she was having. Tomorrow Mr. Anderson would change the locks and anything left in the apartment would be tossed out with the garbage.

      One month’s rent was enough to avoid going to the shelter, and she had that saved. But without the security deposit, she’d had to pass on the apartment she’d found. Damn that interfering Dr. Quinton Searle!

      “Hey, Beth.” Nancy, Beth’s boss, glanced up as Beth returned to the deli. “Laney just called. She’s caught in construction traffic around Midway and can’t make it back in time. I need you to deliver this for me.”

      “Sure.” Beth didn’t even shed her trench coat. She simply picked up the box of food. The aroma of the garlic bread drifted up to her nostrils. Although she’d just been on her lunch break, she hadn’t eaten. “Where to?”

      “The doctors’ medical building. Right by the hospital. Lunch for the office staff or something. The address and suite number are on the order. Take the car. When you get back you can start on the pies.”

      “Okay.” Beth accepted the keys Nancy handed her. The pies that Beth was to bake for tomorrow’s event could wait an hour. Serving hot food was much more important.

      She found the medical building easily; it was across from the hospital where she’d had the misfortune of meeting the seemingly illustrious Dr. Quinton Searle. Any pediatrician could have prescribed liquid charcoal, why had fate insisted she meet him?

      Beth double-parked the car, left the flashers on and entered the building. Chicago Pediatrics had its offices on the seventh floor, and the box seemed to grow in weight as the elevator kept stopping to load and unload passengers at every floor. Finally, she stepped out of the elevator to find a solid mahogany door surrounded by beveled glass windows on each side marking the entrance to suite 712. She pushed open the door and walked up to the reception window. When she tapped, the glass slid back.

      “Delivery from Luie’s Deli.”

      The immaculate young brunette behind the desk brightened. “Great. Bring it in, will you?”

      The large box containing many bags of food was now a lead weight.

      The brunette pointed. “At the end of the hall and to the right you’ll find the staff kitchen. The food is paid for, isn’t it?”

      Beth juggled the box so that she could check the ticket. “Yes.”

      “Great. Then just set it on the counter. There’s an exit door to the left of the kitchen. You can go out that way.”

      “Thanks.” On her trek down the long corridor she passed a few open rooms and noted others remained closed, the charts in plastic boxes and the colored metal flaps above the doors indicating patient status. The door to the last office she was about to pass was partially open.

      “Libby will be right in to administer the shot. Be sure to call if there’s any reaction. I’ll see you for the six-month checkup.”

      Beth froze. No. It couldn’t be. But walking out of the patient room was none other than Dr. Quinton Searle.

      For a moment Beth looked furtively around, wishing that she could just dart into a patient room and hide for a few minutes. A nurse appeared and Quinton turned away from Beth before he saw her. Beth shifted her heavy box, mumbled an “Excuse me” and passed behind Quinton’s backside.

      Within seconds she’d located the kitchen and deposited the box. She took a moment to stretch her tired arms.

      With a deep breath she made for the hallway, but suddenly a large white object filled the doorway.

      “I THOUGHT THAT was your voice.” Quinton stared at Beth. He felt his brow furrow. Had she become thinner since he’d last seen her? “What are you doing here?” Mentally he kicked himself. That had sounded dumb, which her answer “—Delivering food—” confirmed. She drew her chin up defiantly. He ignored it. “Your real job is delivering food?”

      “Gee, I come in here with a box of food. What would you think? No strip show opportunities here. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back. The car’s double-parked.”

      “Is the food paid for?” He was reaching under his coat for his wallet.

      She tried to inch by him and stopped. “It’s paid for. I have to go.”

      “Don’t we need to tip you?”

      “Not unless you’re giving me the five hundred dollars you cost me Saturday night.” Beth marched forward, this time more determined to get through. “Now, I must leave. As I’ll already be homeless tomorrow because of your meddling, the last thing I need to do is lose my job on top of everything else. Besides delivering food I bake pies and cakes, and I’m way behind schedule. So please…” She gestured toward the door.

      Quinton stepped aside and let her pass. A moment later she was gone, once again having walked out of his life.

      The office manager approached. “Who was that?”

      “Your food’s here.”

      His office manager cocked her head. “Oh. She’s not the usual delivery girl.”

      So Beth didn’t deliver food? Maybe she did bake. And had she said she’d be homeless tomorrow? A gnawing began in Quinton’s stomach as he remembered the eviction papers.

      “Tell me, where did you order from?”

      “Luie’s Deli. Canal Street.”

      “Great,” Quinton said. He started for the exit. He had a break between patients and if he hurried he could catch her and—

      “Dr. Searle.”

      “Yes?” He turned back around. A receptionist stood there.

      “Your mother’s on line three. Says it’s urgent.”

      “Thank you,” Quinton said. His errand would have to be delayed. Mrs. Quinton Frederick Searle III—or Babs, to her friends—always indicated urgency whenever she called. Being a doctor’s wife herself, she was a pro at working the system.

      Quinton knew that the only urgency his mother had was to see him wed.

      In his office he picked up the phone. “Mom,” he said by way of greeting.

      “Quinton! I was worried you were too busy.”

      “I’m on my lunch break.”

      “I’m not keeping you from eating, am I?”

      Not unless she got long-winded. “No, I have a few minutes.”

      The requisite sigh. “Oh, good. You do remember Shelby and I will be there this weekend, don’t you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Super. We have some shopping to do. Unfortunately, Susannah won’t be able to make it. You have asked her to wedding, haven’t you?”

      Susannah Joelle Phelps was his family’s handpicked wife candidate for him. Twelve years younger than he was, Susie was twenty-three and in the throes of seeing all her best friends marrying. “No, I haven’t.”

      “Quinton, please tell me you’re not being rude to Susie. She’s been waiting for you forever, and you’re getting old son, old.”

      “I’m thirty-five, Mother, not dead. And don’t worry, I’ve sent my tux measurements already.”

      “You better have. The wedding is Valentine’s Day weekend. Don’t even tell me that you didn’t schedule off the week between your father’s and my anniversary

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