One Night in Boston

By Bluerose

The tall man slumped to the hotel desk. He was finally here. The damn train took forever! He should have driven. But Boston was notorious for its parking problems, and after this week, all he needed was a case of road rage over a pair of white lines. He planned to sleep in, have a nice hot shower, watch some junky, daytime TV, order an obscenely lavish, expensive, room-service  breakfast, and to hell with the conference! Besides, Rodgers had a way of simply explaining anything he needed to know, even if she often metaphorically handed him a dunce cap as she was doing it. How did Briscoe stand the woman? But then, that was only one of many rumors he had heard about the head M.E….
As he stood patiently at the desk, an unholy argument broke out to his left.
With the appeal of a car wreck, it drew his attention. He watched an attractively-figured woman, her back to him, lambaste a tall, fresh-faced young man. Poor guy. He looks like the world’s tallest twelve year old. Iwonder how many cookies he’s stolen? As the young man became more and more frustrated trying to squeeze a word into the raging woman’s diatribe, aforelock of dark hair fell across his forehead. This made the tall man smile with memories. This always happened to him--especially when he was younger. At least he had his nose to protect him from looking like a twelve year old.
JORDAN!
WHAT! Without pausing for a breath, the woman spun toward the new voice, a deep commanding voice of someone used to being listened to--by everyone except the woman, obviously.
“I thought I told you to check the final guest count, not argue with the local police force!”
“Look, Garrett, if you expect me to…”
That thought was never finished. It was rudely interrupted by the tall man who crashed to the floor in a dead faint.
 
“Hmmmnemmsy”
“Fhebzxymwio”
“Dkwudnuftbngj”
“…and the next thing I knew, he was splatting to the ground… Oh, hey, Mister! Are you all right?” The woman leaned forward in her chair and removed a cool compress from his head. 
Images and sounds slowly swam back into sensible cohesion, and the tall man found himself lying on a hard cot, an oxygen cannula in his nose. When he looked up at the person who spoke to him, he started to breathe heavily. 
“Oh, my god! Claire!”
“What? Claire? No! Jordan! Wait! Did you say Claire?” The woman sat back and was silent. “My god, Claire!” she whispered. “Are you Jack?” The man nodded sadly.
In the background, he heard voices: “His pressure’s slightly high, Dr. Macy. Otherwise, he seems fine. Do you want us to take him in?”
“Hold on just a minute, men. Mr. McCoy, my name is Garrett Macy. I’m the host of this conference. The paramedics say you’re fine, but they think you should be checked out at the hospital. Frankly, so do I.” 
McCoy sat up. He felt slightly dizzy, but he would never admit it to anyone there. “No, really. I feel fine, now. I had a shock, that’s all. I’d like to go to my room and have a good night’s sleep--that’s all I need. I promise to call my personal physician. Honestly, I promise!”
Macy huffed, but after years of working with Jordan Cavanaugh, he recognized a hard-head when he met one. He and the hotel manager helped McCoy to his room as the paramedics cleared their equipment.
“So that’s Jack McCoy….”,mused Jordan.
At the room, Jack again assured the manager and Dr. Macy that he was fine, smiled and waved and practically slammed the door in their faces. He slumped against the door as he locked it, thoroughly exhausted. But true to his word, he DID call his doctor, who agreed with the paramedics and Dr. Macy, that Jack SHOULD have been checked out at the hospital. Then he laughed and said it would be easier to inoculate a room-full of pre-schoolers than to get Jack to a hospital. He suggested taking the mild sedative he prescribed--”which you probably didn’t bring with you, right!?”--before bed and wished him  good night. Jack smiled and slumped off to the bathroom. Lo and behold, he HAD packed the sedative. He hadn’t done it intentionally. Must have been kismet. For once (or was it twice?), he followed his doctor’s orders and took the sedative. 
He laid in bed and marveled at the close resemblance of the woman he had just met--Jordan?--with Claire Kincaid. By god, even her mole was in the same place. How was that possible? Other than with identical twins? Was Claire anidentical twin? No, she would have told him, wouldn’t she? But then….they really hadn’t talked much about family, had they. There was always work—and those wonderful…other things. He fell into a restless sleep. The faces of the two women danced in front of him the entire night. The smooth, delicate Claire--intelligent, much less fragile than she appeared and this Jordan--identical, but brash, coarse, and, well, sexy. A perfect example of the nature and nurture debate. But which produced whom--and did he really care. His soul mate was gone, and he didn’t care to revive any painful feelings with a surrogate.
He awaked surprisingly refreshed, and much earlier than he expected. Force of habit! I can turn off any alarm clock except my internal one! He showered, shaved and brushed his teeth and was surprised by how these simple and routine procedures soothed him. As he stepped out of the shower he heard a knock at his door. I didn’t order breakfast last night, did I? I guess I forgot with everything that happened. He shut off the water and quickly donned his robe.
He opened the door, but room service wasn’t waiting for him. 
“It’s you!” His eyes were as big as a child’s at Christmas.
“Ah, hi,” said Jordan. “I brought breakfast. I thought that might get me in the door.”
They stared at each other for a few moments, Jordan staring--Jack staring and dripping.
“Well!?”
“Sorry. Yes, please, come in,” Jack stammered and stepped aside and waved her in.
“Why don’t you go dry off,” Jordan pointedly stared at the puddle that was spreading across the floor, ”while I prepare the things I brought?”
“Dry off? Oh, of course.” Jack blushed when he realized that he was dripping wet, naked beneath the robe and alone in the room with a total stranger.
“Excuse me, please.” He didn’t hear the soft chuckle through the closed door.
He came out in his softest, faded jeans, and a faded blue oxford shirt. His shirt-tails were hanging out and his hair was tousled and damp from the shower. He was bare-footed and he looked for his slippers when he came out of the bathroom.
“AH! You know, she found that your sexiest look. She absolutely loved it.”
Jack stopped cold and stared at the stranger who was relaxing in the armchair in his room. ”WHAT!”
“Claire. She adored that look. She couldn’t wait for mornings and Sundays for that tousled salt-and-pepper mop to wake up next to her.”
Jack knew he must have looked ridiculous, because Jordan laughed out loud. 
“I’m sorry! But I’m beginning to see what Claire saw in you!” As Jack began to look more and more confused, Jordan gave him a gentle smile and said, 
“Claire Kincaid was my cousin. We were very close, and as you may have noticed, we looked very much alike. But looks were our only similarities--talk about lace curtain and shanty Irish all in one family! We could have starred in the Patty Duke Show--she would have been Kathy. “
Jack found his slippers and sat down heavily on the bed, slippers dangling from his fingers. He had a confused, silly look on his face.
“Well, put your slippers on! Your feet will get cold! And wipe that ridiculous look off your face. You‘d swear you‘d never heard of cousins before!” 
“We never talked much about our families. When I saw you last night, I wondered if Claire were a twin…”
“ Even if she talked about family, Claire probably wouldn’t have said much about me. I was our family’s dirty little secret--and Claire’s hidden delight. My mother committed some severely mortal sins by her family standards. Number One:She married poor--to a cop no less. Number Two: She had a mental illness. And the worst of all, Number Three: She got herself murdered.”
Jack was at a loss. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, like you knew. Anyway, this made me something of a black sheep but Claire never deserted me. We told each other everything. But , hey, coffee‘s getting cold.”
Jack peeled back the lid to a piping hot cup of rich black coffee.
“Black, right? “
“And a raisin bagel with extra cream cheese”, said Jack, as he picked up his bagel.
“Well, a cinnamon-raisin bagel, anyway. We’re not as civilized as you New Yorkers are. I wouldn’t have the vaguest idea where to find a plain raisin bagel in this city. I figured, it’s the thought that counts.”
 “And it’s appreciated. Thanks.”
“Claire said that this breakfast and the New York Times Crossword Puzzle was the perfect Sunday morning that lasted ‘til three p.m. or more. She didn’t mind the incredible hours as long as she had Sunday morning.”
Jack looked into his coffee cup and remembered those Sundays. The memories showed in the sad, slow smile and the film of tears that covered his eyes.
“Boy, you must be something.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In all the years I’d known Claire, and that was since birth, I’d never know her to be that much in love with anyone. I’ve gone through puppy love, dalliances, infatuations, lust, but never the real thing--the big L-O-V-E. Until she met you. In the beginning, she told me every little detail, as she always did. But later, she talked about you often, but it was different. There was a privacy, that I couldn’t share. She didn’t shut me out--but she couldn’t share you either. That’s when I knew Claire had found something I have yet to experience.  I doubt I ever will.”
Jack continued to stare at the coffee cup, but his smile was gone and the film threatened to turn into a cascade of tears.
“Looks like Claire wasn’t the only one who found love.”
Jack abruptly cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “You were kind enough to bring bagels and coffee. May I supplement our breakfast with orange juice, danish, eggs and bacon?”
Jordan looked at her watch. “No thanks. I have to be going. If I’m not downstairs in the next five minutes, I’ll be doing an autopsy on Garrett because he’ll have an aneurysm because I’m late--again. I’m one of the morning speakers and I’m on the afternoon panel. Will I see you there?” She gave him a wicked wink.
“We’ll see…,” he said noncommittally. But he was smiling.
“I just wanted to stop by to introduce myself to let you know you weren’t seeing ghosts or refugees from the witness protection program or anything. And, thanks, this was a big help for me, too.” She stood up, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
Jack walked her to the door. She waved and strutted down the hall. He watched her as she left. So much alike--so completely different. He would like to get to know Jordan Cavanaugh, if she’d let him. He had a feeling not many people got to really know Jordan Cavanaugh. 
Maybe this conference would be more interesting than daytime TV after all. I mean, what can Oprah or Dr. Phil offer me after this morning?

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