The Doctor Takes a Wife

THE DOCTOR TAKES A WIFE

Elizabeth Seifert

Dr
.
Phil Scoles almost died in the accident that killed his
fiancé
e. He emerged from the crisis with one resolve
—
to use his “second chance” to follow his dream of research, turning his back on the country hospital he had helped make great.

But the research center proved to hold another dream for him
—
the brilliant, lovely, troubled Page Arning. And, in realizing what loving her meant, Dr. Phil Scoles faced the greatest challenge of his emotional life—and his
career.

CHAPTER 1

My
name
is Lawrence Peter Whitley, M.D. I am Internist at the Berry and Chappell Clinic, the “little Mayo
’
s of the West,” and I like my work, I like the mountains and I like my friends.

Chief among these is my coworker, Philip Scoles. He
’
s a year younger than I am, better looking and much more of a whiz-bang doctor. He
’
s a surgeon, which has more glamor; his specialty is Ob. and Gc., and he
’
s good at it
.
His handsome face, his deep voice and his intent manner, are no handicaps to him whatever.

When he came to us, the girls in town lost no time recognizing his abilities—
Girls
being a generic term for any female between fifteen and fifty, with a little leeway permitted in all directions. On his part, Phil took to us like
a duck to water; he fitted neatly into the hospital set-up, he became immediately active in our Little Theatre crowd, and he liked our sports, white-water fishing in summer, and skiing in the winter time. He was good at everything he attempted. He
’
s a big chap, with dark red hair, and earnest brown eyes.

Phil is so different from me that I guess our friendship is a puzzle to some, but from the first we hit it off; we shared a bachelor apartment near the hospital, and made our rounds, professional and social, together. I was set to be best man at his wedding to Marynelle Lowe
...

I think any story I have to tell would have to begin that winter when Phil was planning to marry Marynelle. It was the week end before their wedding that we all went up to McCord for some skiing.

The hospital tries to arrange things so that every Staff member gets a free week end once a month. Phil and I had done some wangling to have ours at the same time. I
’
m an internist, Phil a surgeon—but there were replacements for both of us, and we went off together.

McCord, we like to say, is the poor man
’
s Sun Valley. And, we like to say, too, much more fun. It is a grand place—lake, fine Inn, boating and fishing in the summer, excellent skiing in the winter. In the summer one can drive there in five hours. But in winter it takes a plane. That is no difficulty, however, for several in our crowd fly their own Cesnas or whatever. And
empire
will make a stop for as few as three passengers. That
’
s the way Phil and I went up on Friday evening; naturally the private pilots prefer lady passengers. But in one way and another, the whole gang gathered at the Inn—about fifteen of us, the Little Theatre group, mainly. That first evening we spent around the fire in the big lounge, waxing skis, talking—a drink or two—some horseplay and smooching. Just the sort of thing any group like that does. Min was there.

It snowed the next morning, but stopped around ten o
’
clock, and right after lunch, Phil and Marynelle took off together. We all considered that a natural and proper thing for them to do, and we none of us followed. But I heard the details later, from Phil.

Marynelle had been jumpy the evening before, and downright ugly at lunch that day, but we all decided it was a matter of a bride
’
s jitters, and excused her behavior. In attempting an apology to Min, Phil had shown that he thought the same thing; he
’
s a pretty understanding guy. A doctor has to learn to be, of course, but Phil had special talents along that line. It isn
’
t often you find such clear reading of people, such complete comprehension of them and their ways, combined with the genuine liking which Phil Scoles had for “folks.” It was a real gift with
him
.

So when Marynelle stopped for a breather, and used the opportunity to turn on him, I don
’
t think he took her too seriously. Though it was immediately evident that she had stored up several things to say to him, and had whetted her tongue for the purpose.

In the first place—“As you know, I am as
modern
as the next one,” she told him, her clear voice sounding loud there in the snow, with the blue sky, and the widely spaced trees, and the slope upward, the slope downward, stretching on and on—For all they could see or hear, the world was theirs alone.

Marynelle slapped her yellow gloves together, and put them on again, not really looking at Phil. He leaned his shoulders against a tree, and lit a cigarette for her.

“I realize,” she was going on, “that kissing has become such a general thing that the only danger in it is a germ or two. But just the same, there are degrees of kissing. And you may as well know that I feel I have first claim on your best efforts, Phil.”

He gave her the cigarette, and leaned back again toward his tree.

“I know you like Min Brady,” she said without any interruption. “And I
’
m not the only one who speculates as to how
well
you like her. Anyone seeing you greet her last night would have thought
her
your bride. It was what might well be called an embrace, Dr. Scoles
!
But you know that, don
’
t you?”

Min had flown up with Walt Maddox, sports writer on her newspaper, and Johnny Kling, who owned the plane. They
’
d come by sleigh from the field, getting to the icicle
-
hung Inn after dark. Min had come into the big lobby with snowflakes on her pretty brown hair, her cheeks like apples—and she had slipped on a ball of snow caked under her shoe-heel. Phil
’
s outflung arm had saved her from a nasty fall, and—yes—he
’
d given her quite a kiss. But nobody had thought too much of it—not even me.

But with Marynelle, the thing had been smoldering. “You both enjoyed that kiss too much for me to want you to do any more of it!” she concluded her lecture. “And you can take that as a request, or an order—any way you will consider emphatic enough to demand your attention.”

Phil just stood there, wagging his up-ended ski from one side to the other, and now he gave Marynelle one of his slow looks and drawled in that chord
-
like voice, “Don
’
t you think, Honey, it might be better to save that sort of order till next week? I mean—” He dropped his cigarette into the snow and looked down at the little black hole it melted. “I mean, that
’
s a nice bit of nagging you
’
re doing. D
’
you realize that?”

“Don
’
t change the subject!” she cried sharply.

He lifted his head and looked at her intently. “I
’
m not changing any subject. I
’
m just telling you that I don
’
t imagine I
’
ll care for that tone and manner after we
’
re married, and I sure as hell don
’
t like it now!”

She gasped. It may have been the first time Phil had ever answered back to her, but she wasn
’
t taking it in any case. “Don
’
t you dare speak to me that way, Phil Scoles! If you behave in ways that humiliate me, I
’
m going to tell you I don
’
t like it! Yes, and you
’
ll listen!”

“Only while your voice carries to me as I
’
m walking out,” he assured her.

“Walk out!” she cried, tossing her taffy-colored hair back from her face. She was whiter than the snow. The hollows of her cheeks and at her temples seemed green. She was one mad woman! Marynelle had a very high opinion of herself, and she didn
’
t take well to argument on the subject. “Which way will you go?” she asked icily. “I
’
ll take the other direction.”

“Oh, for God
’
s sake,” said Phil.

“Now don
’
t remind me that men don
’
t like scenes. Of course they don
’
t. Especially when the scene is over some behavior on their part that—”

“Listen to me!” he said sternly. “I like Min Brady. I kissed her last night. So what?”

“So I
’
m telling you not to do it again!”

“When you
’
re around, you mean.”

“I do not mean that. I
’
m saying you
’
re to stay away from that little—”

“Shut up!”

“I
’
ll not—”

“You will, or I
’
ll make you.”

By then they were glaring at each other, eyes hot, chins pointed. Their skis kept them at a safe distance, but that need not last.

Phil was the first to hear the ugly sounds which their raised voices were making in the cold, pure air. He drew back, and let his big shoulders relax. “We
’
re quarreling, Marynelle,” he said quietly.

“I know we are
...”

“But we shouldn
’
t be, Honey. You know we shouldn
’
t.”

“But you—” Her finely arched eyebrows were drawn together in an unbecoming scowl. Marynelle was the smooth, slick sort of girl whose chief line is composure, an almost bored avoidance of emotional expression.

“I
’
m sorry if I
’
ve done anything to anger you,” Phil said readily. “And it looks as if I
’
d done plenty. But that
’
s no reason we should stand here and freeze to death. I won
’
t kiss Min again—” his big mouth quirked, “—and enjoy it
.
So let
’
s go on down the trail. Or should we cut across to the lake, and make our way back from there?”

Marynelle didn
’
t answer; she put on her goggles, bent and adjusted the spring against her boot and then started down the way which they had been going. Phil followed about twenty feet behind her, his eyes thoughtful. She was right. A man does not like a scene. He didn
’
t.

It
’
s difficult to stay angry on a sunlit ski trail, but Marynelle managed to keep her mood, so that when the next opportunity came, she began on me.

“I notice Larry
’
s pretty careful not to mention the Norber death!”

Now, of course, I was not Marynelle
’
s type, and never would be. I
’
m an earnest young man, and I look the part; I
’
m not repulsively ugly, but I
’
m certainly not handsome.
I
’
m not dull or stupid, but I
’
m definitely not exciting. Marynelle would never have given me a second look or thought except that I was Phil
’
s best friend, and she had to see something of me.

Phil and I liked each other; we lived together, and we worked together. As the two youngest men on the clinic
-
hospital staff—excepting the Resident—it was only natural that we should join forces, if only in defense against the older men in our group.

We shared ideas on the way the clinic should be run, and on certain treatments; our offices adjoined, and it wasn
’
t only Marynelle
’
s idea that we were “partners” in a professional sense.

Also, there had been a great deal of talk in town about the Norber case. I had hated losing that one—and, as the newspaper told when she died, she
had
been my case.

When her baby was bo
rn
, the regular o.b. man, Putnam, was on his vacation; I was on house duty, and there was no surgical reason to call Phil. The delivery was routine; the woman made routine progress and went home. The baby was eleven days old when a clot developed—and the mother died.

I felt terrible about it, of course. She was young
—
twenty-seven—with two other small children. We had thoroughly discussed my treatment of her in Staff meetings. An embolism is just one of those t
h
ings
...
They develop, and you do what you can. This clot went to her lungs, and
phhht
!
she was gone.

Now, when Marynelle brought up the matter—they
’
d stopped for Phil to do something to his shoelace; it was twisted and cutting his ankle—he ignored the waspish sting which still hummed in her voice, and carefully explained the medical situation to her.

But her chorus was, “Larry Whitley
’
s not an o.b. doctor. Why should he venture to
...
Why didn
’
t he call you?”

“Would you rather blame
me
for Joan Norber
’
s death?” he asked her quietly.

“But she wouldn
’
t have died—”

“How do you know?”

“You know more about deliveries than Larry does.”

“If you
’
re saying Joan died because Whit was careless
—
or ignorant
...”