Page 42 of Truly, Madly Viking

"What's so damn funny?" Maggie asked huffily.

Joe wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "I'll tell you what's so funny, my lady. You speak of endings, but methinks there is another direction for our relationship."

"Relationship? Relationship? We have no relationship," she shrieked.

He hit the side of his head with the heel of one hand. "Must you be so shrill? Your screeching hurts my ears. Reminds me of a seagull when it spots a tasty meal."

She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists to calm down. "Get this though your thick skull: we have no relationship."

"Ha! Think again, my lady," he declared with a droll expression on his face. "I have just realized an important fact about us."

She was about to scream that there was no "us," but restrained herself. Instead she lifted one eyebrow in question.

"I think you are my fate. I think you are the reason I was sent here."

Maggie did scream then, silently.

"Oh, my God!"

The tour of the Rainbow facilities by the Medic-All contingent had just been successfully completed, and Maggie was about to breathe a deep sigh of relief when she heard Harry's exclamation. Turning, she followed the direction of his gaze, down the corridor to the open doorway of the exercise room. It was her turn to exclaim then, "Oh, my God!"

Joe was leaning against the doorjamb, wearing black sweatpants, white high tops, and a gray T-shirt that spelled out, No Pain, No Gain. He was talking animatedly to a short, gray-haired gentleman in wing tips and a pin-striped business suit... a stranger, as far as Maggie could tell.

With trepidation, she inquired of the Medic-All PR man, George Smith, "Who is that?"

"Oh! So he decided to come, after all," George answered enthusiastically. He was already walking away.

"Who?" she and Harry said at the same time, rushing to catch up. The other six members of the Medic-All group, along with two members of the Lawrence family, which owned the privately held Rainbow facility, followed quickly behind them.

"Jerome Johnson. President and CEO of Medic-All," George informed them over his shoulder. "He was supposed to be tied up all day in meetings with the Dallas lawyers. Guess he decided to cut them short."

So this was the elusive, high-powered Donald Trump of the HMO world. He resembled a mildmannered Mr. Milquetoast, but looks were deceiving. Money magazine described him as mysterious and obsessively protective of his private life. As far as Maggie knew, he'd never been photographed for the media.

Hattie Lawrence, a spoiled Houston socialite, whispered in Maggie's ear, "Who is that character?" She was staring fixedly at Joe. "He'd better not be spoiling this deal for us. We've worked too hard to—Mercy! The man is a giant... and drop dead gorgeous. Please don't tell me he's a patient."

Hattie was three times divorced, with as many face-lifts, tummy tucks, and boob jobs as a thirty five-year-old woman could sustain. Luckily, the greedy woman had only a small say in Rainbow's future.

Her daddy, Jack Lawrence, also in attendance, held the purse strings. Today was not the first time she and Harry had met Jack Lawrence or Hattie, but most of the negotiations had been taking place between the Lawrence family and the Medic-All people, off premises.

"That's Joe Rand, and yes, he's a patient."

Hattie's face dropped with disappointment. They had almost reached the exercise wing, and Maggie could hear Joe expounding to the Medic-All honcho: "'Tis my opinion that all of your patients can benefit from a daily exercise program. You know what the Norse proverbs say: sound bodies go hand in hand with sound minds." Jorund took a deep breath and continued. "Spear throwing and hand-to-hand combat on the practice field work best, of course, but in their absence, your exercise machines provide a fair substitute. I tried to instruct the pay-shuns yesterday on swordplay, but Norse Hatch-her nigh had a fit over that. You'd think broom and mop handles were priceless objects. Dost think a practice field would be a possibility for the future?"

Oh, good heavens! A patient lecturing on mental health and fitness! A patient who thinks he's a tenth-century Viking!

And Jerome Johnson was all ears.

"Even those who live in those wheeled chairs should be working muscles that are still alive," Joe was blathering on. "Otherwise they will all atrophy... that's a word I learned on Wheel of Fortune. Oh, you watch that show on the world box, too? Anyhow, just since I've been here— about two sennights—you can see a change in some of the pay-shuns. Hair-vee Lutz, for example, has the strangest compulsion to count things. Well, now he is counting the strokes of his oars on the rowing machine."

Sure enough, through the open doorway to the exercise room, they could see Harvey counting away as sweat poured down his face and he continued to row.

Appropriately, the logo on his T shirt today read, I Get Enough Exercise Just Pushing My Luck.

"See Chuck over there? Today he thinks he is a puff fish, but look how energetically he is rowing. This is the first time in two years that Chuck has worked his muscles."

Yep, Chuck was puffin away like a steam engine—or a puff fish, whatever that was—as he worked the rowing machine. The bright young man wore a T-shirt that pretty much said it all: Okay, Who Put a Stop Payment on My Reality Check? Someday soon Maggie hoped to find out what Chuck's real problem was, because it sure as heck wasn't being a split animal personality.

"And my comrade, Steve Askey, is pressing five hundred benches," Joe was still blathering on, "or is it pressing the bench at five hundred... ? Oh, I didn't see you there, Dock-whore Muck-bride... and Dock-whore Seabold. Have you met my new friend, Jaw-rome Johnson? He's a Norseman, too... from New-arc. That's in the world of New Jar-see."