I talked with her for another ten minutes, but that was as far as I got. She stood like a brick wall, and once I’d presented her with all of the information I could, I backed off. I knew that part of maintaining my patients’ well-being was respecting the areas of their lives where they weren’t ready for input, and with Mrs. Dulinksky, that fence extended around all elements of her care. I’d consult from a distance, keeping my eye on her numbers and meds, and I’d give Dr. Girard my input. How he chose to use it was up to him.
I’d been in Florida for a little over two weeks and was just beginning to feel somewhat settled when everything shifted under me, like seismic plates along the San Andreas Fault.
It was a Friday morning, and I had gotten up early to get some work done at the hospital before the official day began. At least, that was what I was telling myself; in truth, it had been a very still, muggy night which had dawned to an even hotter, more humid morning, and the idea of air conditioning had been too tempting to resist.
I was sitting at one of the nurses’ stations, working on the computer there as I enjoyed my coffee. I chatted back and forth with Darcy, who was just finishing up her overnight shift.
“Rough night?” She eyed my jeans and sleeveless blouse. “You’re not the fashion diva I’m used to seeing.”
I grimaced. I hadn’t shared the details of what I privately referred to as my living situation with anyone but Jenny, who had seen it up close and personal. Despite the challenges of my home, I still tried to come to work dressed professionally, but this morning, bleary-eyed from a restless night, I hadn’t been able to muster the energy for heels and a dress. In all honesty, I hadn’t wanted to put anything on my body, but since I didn’t work at a clothing-optional hospital, I’d compromised with a pair of dark-wash denim jeans and a white cotton blouse.
“It was hot this morning, and my air conditioning was out last night.” I refrained from adding that it was outeverynight—my mother called those small omittences mental reservations.
“Oh, I get that.” She wrinkled her nose. “I grew up in a house without a/c, and I spent most of my childhood in as few clothes as my mom would allow.” She yawned and stretched out her arms. “Hope you get it fixed soon.”
“Yeah, me, too.” I pulled up Mr. Crew’s chart on the computer, focusing on the screen. I’d just begun reviewing the changes I’d made in his meal plan when I heard Darcy suck in a quick breath.
“Oh, my God. Why didn’t you tell mehewas back?” Her eyes went round as she whispered to the nurse next to her—I couldn’t remember the other woman’s name. Addy? Abby? Something like that.
“I didn’t know. He wasn’t scheduled to be here until Monday.” Both women’s eyes were fastened somewhere over my shoulder, and I had the irresistible human urge to twist in my chair to see the object of their excitement, even though I had a hunch that I already knew the answer. With a sense of fatalistic resignation, I ventured a glance down the hallway.
The man who stood outside of Angela Spencer’s room, reading from her file, had a . . . presence. I wasn’t sure why that was my first impression of him, but it was true. I could only see his profile, and the corridor was dim, since we hadn’t yet switched the lights to full brightness for the day shift, but even from this angle, I made out the breadth of his shoulders and the way his dark gray shirt hugged his chest. I noticed that his hair was longer than I’d expected it to be; the way everyone in this hospital talked about the revered Dr. Deacon Girard, I thought he’d be perfectly coiffed, with hair like my Ken doll used to have. Of course, old Ken’s ‘do had been molded plastic . . .
Dr. Foxy, I thought, remembering Jenny’s confidences with a smirk.
As though he felt the weight of my stare, Dr. Girard’s head turned slightly. I couldn’t tell for sure from this distance, but I thought maybe he was looking at me. My face grew warm, and I hoped like hell my cheeks weren’t flaming red.
With no little effort, I bent my head over the keyboard again and tried to remember what I’d been doing a minute ago. Frowning at the screen, I dragged my attention back to Mr. Crew’s latest bloodwork report.
“Dr. Carson?”
His voice was deep and nuanced, with just the faintest hint of the south woven into it. The eyes that rested on me were an almost shockingly bright green, framed by long, dark lashes. His nose was straight, his jaw strong, and his lips were surprisingly full.
I realized that he was waiting for me to respond. Unfortunately, I was afraid I might have forgotten how to speak.
“Uh—”
“YouareDr. Carson, aren’t you? Our new naturopathic doctor?” He leaned his folded arms onto the counter in front of me, gazing down over the computer’s monitor.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’m Emma Carson.”
He chuckled softly. “That’s a relief. I’m pretty sure I know most of the people working on this floor, but I was taking a risk by assuming the person I didn’t recognize was the naturopath.” He extended his hand. “I’m Deacon Girard. I’m sorry I wasn’t on hand when you arrived.”
“No problem.” I slid my fingers into his, squeezing slightly. “I heard you were off saving the world while the rest of us were back here slogging away.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew they were wrong. I wanted to bite off my tongue.
Dr. Girard’s eyes took on a decided chill as he pulled his hand away. “I don’t know about saving the world. I was working with a group in South America—an organization that’s trying to eradicate childhood hunger. The doctor who’d been scheduled to work that tour was in a car accident, and they needed a last-minute substitute. If they’d been able to get anyone else, I wouldn’t have left. Going away three weeks after we opened this wing wasn’t exactly part of my plan.”
“I didn’t mean to—” I began, anxious to walk back my mistake, but Dr. Girard ignored me.
“I landed in Tampa a few hours ago and drove home. I planned to sleep all day today and come in here on Monday morning after I had the weekend to catch up, but then I read the messages from Mira. She said the new naturopath was trying to completely re-do Mrs. Spencer’s care plan. So instead of going to bed as I’d planned, I took a shower, got dressed and dragged my ass in here to make sure you weren’t screwing up all of my work.”
The embarrassment I’d been feeling morphed into indignation. “Hey, I’m not screwing up anything. I have no idea whatMiramight have told you—” I gave her name special emphasis. “But I didn’t re-do anything. I just added my own recommendations and made some adjustments to her dietary plan.” I paused. “And we discussed some alternatives to some aspects of her treatment, like the timing of her chemo. Nothing that will affect the outcome, except maybe ensure it will be more positive.”
“And just how the hell can you be sure of that?” His jaw clenched. “You’ve been here for what . . . two weeks? And you think you know better than the doctor who’s been managing her illness for months?” He pointed a finger at me, like I was a child who’d misbehaved. “I’ve known Angela since she was diagnosed. She was referred to me by her primary care doctor, and I’ve been working with her out of the Calumbra Center until this wing opened. You had no right to make any changes without going through me.”
“Dr. Girard, with all due respect—”
