Noah grinned. “She’s very protective of this hospital, and she can be a little brusque, but she’s not bad once you get to know her.”
“Are you from around here?” I cocked my head, feeling the blood drain from my face as a thought occurred to me. “Oh, dear Lord, please tell me you’re not Mrs. Hoskins’ son. Or brother. Or that you’re related to the saintly Dr. Girard or something.”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “No relation. I’m not from this area originally—I grew up in Wisconsin—but I’ve lived in the Tampa area for the last couple of years. And I’ve gotten to know Dr. Girard pretty well.” He was silent for a beat before he drew in a breath. “My wife is one of his patients. She’s on the oncology wing.”
“Oh.” A kaleidoscope of feelings flickered before me. Disappointment that he was married, because Noah was not only painfully hot, he also seemed to be genuinely nice—funny, kind and intelligent, too. Sympathy, because I figured Noah couldn’t be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and cancer in a young person was particularly brutal. Guilt because I’d just said some things about the doctor treating his sick wife and the hospital where she was a patient.
“I’m so sorry, Noah.” I reached out to touch the back of his hand. “I had no idea.” Something began to dawn on me. “Your wife—is she Angela?” Most of the patients were middle-aged or older, but Angela Spencer was just twenty-seven. I remembered that from her records.
“Yeah,” Noah confirmed. “That’s my girl.” The smile that lit up his face told me everything I wanted to know about their marriage. It was wonder and love and amazement and pain . . . all in a single expression.
“I met her this morning.” I was about to say that it had been my changes to Angela’s treatment plan that had triggered the head nurse’s ire, but I decided that might undermine his confidence in his wife’s care team. “She’s a lovely woman. You’re both very lucky.”
“Don’t I know it.” Noah sat up, stretching his arm across the back of the bench. The wingspan on this guy was insane. “We’ve been going out since high school. I always say I snapped her up before some other guy realized that she’s perfect. We went to college together, and we got married right after graduation.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “I was drafted by Houston, so we lived there for a couple of years before I was traded to Tampa.” His lips pressed together. “We decided to start a family once we were settled here. Ang went for tests, you know, because we wanted to make sure we were doing everything right. And her blood work came back . . . wonky.”
“That sucks.” Sometimes, the simplest expression of sympathy was all I could offer. More than anyone, I understood that cancer didn’t differentiate between loved ones and strangers, or the young and the old. Disease was the great equalizer.
“Yeah. So instead of picking out baby names and buying cribs and shit, we’re talking about chemo meds and how she’s going to look with a bald head.” Noah rubbed his huge hand over his face. “I wanted to do the solidarity thing, you know? Shave my head, too, so she knew we were in this together. But she wouldn’t let me. Angela doesn’t want anyone on the team or in the press to know that she’s sick.”
Understanding dawned. “That’s why you’re here and not at some big medical center.”
“Well, that’s part of it,” Noah conceded. “We were referred to Dr. Girard as soon as Ang was diagnosed, and she had her initial treatments closer to home. But when he told us about this wing he was opening in his hometown hospital, and how it was going to be state of the art care in a quieter setting, it just seemed like the perfect place, you know?”
“I get that.” I nodded. “And from everything I’ve read before and seen today, I think this is an incredible facility. Please don’t let my whining just now make you think anything different. That’s my deal, not a reflection on St. Agnes.”
“I know. Trust me, if I didn’t think my girl was getting the best care here, we’d be gone. I’m letting Ang have her way for now, because I’m still kind of new with this team, and she thinks I shouldn’t be defined as the guy whose wife has leukemia. But if I got even a hint that there was a better place for her, I’d have her there in a heartbeat. Angela’s recovery is the only thing that matters. This career, this team, money, fame—none of it means jack if she’s not okay.”
“Of course.” Noah’s hand was near my shoulder, and I reached back to pat it. “I promise that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you two get the life you deserve. Someday, you’ll look back on this time as nothing more than a blip on the radar screen of your lives together.”
“I always thought I was so aware and appreciative of what we had, but all this has been a wake-up call about how much I take for granted.” An alarm beeped, and Noah looked at his watch again. “Okay, that’s my cue to leave. Angela doesn’t want me to hang out at the hospital all the time. She still does some telecommuting for her own work, and I’m not allowed to show up until she’s finished for the day.”
I rose to my feet along with him, more conscious than ever that he dwarfed me by comparison. “Thanks for letting me vent to you.”
“Hey, any time. It was good to meet you, Emma. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” With a last crooked smile, he was off, moving with the sort of grace that seemed incompatible with his size.
After Noah left, the peace of the courtyard felt somehow . . . lacking, as though he’d taken with him all of the restful energy. I hesitated for a few more moments before making a decision. Hitching my handbag onto my shoulder, I headed for the parking lot.
2
Emma
I hadn’t paid much attention to my surroundings when I’d driven into Harper Springs early that morning, but now, as I followed my navigation app’s directions from the hospital to the piece of land that was my new home, I took the time to check it out. The main street was lined with shops and businesses that gave way to small homes, most of which looked like they were fifty years old or more.
My first reaction to the email asking me to consider taking this position had been cautious interest. And then I’d opened up a map on my computer to see exactly where Harper Springs, Florida, was located, and I’d laughed. Why in the world would I leave Philadelphia? Why would I give up an apartment that was within walking distance of restaurants serving five different cuisines, the best grocery stores in the world, and a bustling nightlife?
The answer was that I’d never really wanted to live in the city. For years, my dream had been to find a piece of land where I could build my own home, raise my own food and live on my own terms. A little investigation proved that land around Harper Springs was plentiful and relatively affordable. Within a day of accepting the job at the hospital, I’d contacted a local real estate agent who’d helped me find a five-acre lot, which I’d purchased outright. The trust fund I didn’t like to think about had given me the ability to do that and to buy a manufactured home that would be my temporary housing while I built my own dream home.
I couldn’t wait to see it. I knew it wasn’t going to be perfect; adjusting to a tiny home after the luxury of my city digs wouldn’t be easy. But I could do it. I wasn’t some tender-foot prima donna; I used to spend summers at my grandparents’ cabin in the mountains of Virginia with no internet, no central air, and no cable. I knew how to rough it.
The navigation ended at a dirt road. From this point, the real estate agent’s directions took over. My trusty little sedan—I’d almost forgiven her for not being so trustworthy in the middle of Georgia—bumped over the potholes and rocks until I spotted the stakes with bright blue flags that marked the start of my land.
It gave me a warm feeling deep inside to know that this was mine. It belonged to me, and me alone. Here, in this place, I would begin to build a life that was uniquely and only mine. Today might not have been the best beginning ever, but tomorrow was another day. I’d move into my adorable tiny house, make a healthy dinner and enjoy it with a glass of wine, get a good night’s sleep and start again in the morning.
I’d arranged to have the modular set up a little distance into the property. I spotted something white and boxy off to my left and steered the car in that direction. It was smaller than I’d expected . . . but that was all right. I could deal.
I parked alongside the house. Well, it wasn’t really a house, not as much as I’d thought it would be. It was more like a trailer. A grungy looking, dirty white trailer, with lots of dents and missing siding.
Slowly, I climbed out of the car and looked around. The land was perfect—no trees, lots of green grass and endless potential. I could see all of what it could be, with a little bit of imagination and days—months—of hard work.
