“Helen wouldn’t approve of us fraternizing.”
“Helen trusts me.”
I did want to see the city, especially the plaza he had just told me about. He would be a good companion, unlike the nurses, who would be chatty and draw unwanted attention. The prospect of spending the day with them had seemed draining and exhausting, but the idea of spending it with Zechariah felt refreshing—if we didn’t fight.
“If you don’t think Helen would mind,” I said.
The barest hint of a smile warmed his blue eyes. If I had not spent the past six months familiar with his scowl, I might have missed his smile. But it was enough to know he was pleased that I had agreed.
It took me a few minutes to retrieve a bag with things I might need that day. I was wearing a black-and-white polka dot summer dress with a red belt and a wide-brimmed hat. I didn’t wear makeup often, but I put on a little red lipstick to match my belt. It felt fun to dress up a bit, and when I joined Zechariah on the quarterdeck again, I could see that he liked it too. The admiration in his eyes surprised me, since he rarely let his emotions show.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, and we left the ship to head into the city.
Zechariah hired a cab, and it took us directly to the Casco Viejo neighborhood. Red tiled roofs and ornate wrought-iron railings dominated the pastel-colored buildings on the small peninsula. There was a distinct Spanish Colonial influence tothe buildings and the narrow alleys. Palm trees dotted the red-brick streets, and the smell of the ocean on the breeze lifted my spirits.
“Casco Viejo is part of the original walled city,” Zechariah said next to me in the tight cab. “It was built after pirate Henry Morgan looted and pillaged the first city in the late 1600s.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “As charming as you promised.”
His face softened as he met my gaze, and I smiled.
The cab driver let us off at the Plaza de la Catedral. I stepped out of the vehicle and immediately took in the old Metropolitan Cathedral with its stone facade and white towers. There were not a lot of people, but it was still busy enough, with street vendors selling food and other wares. In the center of the plaza was a white pavilion, green grass, and palm trees.
After we toured the cathedral, Zechariah led me along the narrow streets, pointing out various buildings and commenting on the history of Panama City and the canal that had made it so famous.
“How do you know so much?” I asked, amazed at his ability to share facts so effortlessly.
He shrugged. “I read a lot.”
“I read a lot too, but I can’t retain information like you.”
“That’s not true. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”
His compliment surprised me.
It was fun to see him in an environment outside the operating room. He was relaxed and almost like a different person—we didn’t fight once.
He took me to the tip of the peninsula to El Conjunto Monumental de las Bóvedas, the walls that had originally protected the city. All around were the ocean and the shoreline of Panama City.
Zechariah found a small restaurant with rooftop dining, and we sat with a view of the sparkling water, under a large umbrella. After we ordered fresh yellowfin tuna and shrimp, heleaned back in his chair, and I had the opportunity to study him as he admired the ocean. He was not a man I would consider classically handsome, though he was definitely distinguished and attractive. His brilliance was one of the qualities I most admired, that and his compassion for his patients. I had never once heard him say an unkind thing to a patient, and when he spoke with them, a gentleness came over him that sometimes took my breath away. Why couldn’t he be that way with his coworkers?
“How are you feeling?” I ventured to ask, noting that he was still thin and the dermatitis had not healed on his hands. “Have you had any luck with your elimination diet?”
He lifted his water glass and took a sip. Condensation coated the outside of the glass, dripping from his hand. “As soon as I think I know what it is, I’m baffled all over again.”
“Have you narrowed it down to a set of culprits?” I needed to be careful, but I wanted to know if he was even close.
“I think it may be related to grains.” He sighed as he set his glass on the table. “But I would rather not talk about it today.”
I nodded, relieved that he was on the right track.
The waitress brought us two bowls of broth soup with roasted chicken, a variety of herbs and seasonings, onions, and a root vegetable I didn’t recognize.
“This stew is calledsancocho,” Zechariah told me. “It’s a traditional recipe here in Panama.”
It looked a lot like chicken soup to me, but when I tasted it, I realized it was much richer than any chicken soup I had ever eaten.
