“Then, Heather will talk about the importance of communication, and probably also about teamwork. She’ll make a vague statement about striving for excellence. Then she’ll recommend we form subcommittees and have more meetings, and I’ll get sucked into this cycle of futility.”
I shouldn’t find this funny, but there’s a laugh threatening to bubble out of me. I bite my lip to try to suppress it, and Dr. Malone notices.
“I’m glad someone finds it amusing,” he says dryly.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, making a supreme effort to look serious. “It’s just?—”
“Ridiculous,” he agrees. “Yep. But unfortunately, that’s how things are done around here.”
“But why . . .” I trail off when I realize I was about to ask him an overly personal question.
“You can ask, Alexandra.”
“Why did you want to be the chief of surgery if you hate meetings so much? I mean, you must have known that was part of the job?”
Dr. Malone hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he’s debating how much to tell me.
“I didn’t really want the job,” he finally admits. “The hospital board persuaded me to take it. And in the two years I’ve been chief, I’ve tried to resign twice. Unfortunately, I wasn’t successful.”
“What do you mean you weren’t successful?” How do you fail at resignation?
He sighs. “Both times, the board persuaded me to stay.”
“They want you so badly they won’t let you quit,” I say thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty big compliment.”
“Not really,” Dr. Malone says wryly. “I’m sure they’d love to replace me with someone more likely to dance to their tune. But a major donor thinks I should be the chief, and money talks.”
It’s none of my business, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Who’s the donor?”
“Have you heard of Peter Tate? Of Sigma Mining?”
I rack my brain, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. “I don’t think so.”
“Not surprising,” he says. “He keeps a pretty low profile. But basically he inherited a mining fortune, and he’s worth about a billion dollars.”
“Oh. And he wants you to be the chief of surgery?”
Dr. Malone nods. “Three years ago, I operated on his daughter Amber,” he explains. “I wouldn’t usually talk about a patient, but this was in the news. The Tates live in Toronto, but they have a cottage just east of here, and Amber Tate came to Somerset for university. Three years ago she fell down a flight of stairs at a party and got an epidural hematoma. That’s a bleed between the brain and the skull.”
“And you operated on her?”
He nods. “Yeah. I operated, Amber did well, and her parents were grateful.”
“So you saved her life.”
A tinge of color stains his cheeks. “It was a simple craniotomy. Anyone could have done it.”
Clearly, Drew Malone doesn’t like to boast of his achievements.
“I doubt anyone could have done it,” I say. “I mean, I wouldn’t have wanted to try it.
His lips twitch. “Anyneurosurgeoncould have done it. Anyway, the Tates were grateful, and they made a huge donation to the hospital. They’re really into philanthropy, and they’ve made Somerset Hospital one of their pet causes. For the past couple years they’ve come to the Spring Fling fundraising gala, and some of their friends have started donating too.”
“And Peter Tate thinks you should be the chief of surgery,” I say thoughtfully.
Dr. Malone shrugs. “Apparently he told the CEO that he thought I’d do a good job. I’m not sure how much Tate actually cares, but no one wants to find out.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
