One Great Christmas Love Story

by Kaylee Baldwin

  She yelled to Jack, “Call code!”

  The man’s face turned white and he slumped off the side of his chair. Holly caught him before he could land on the floor.

  The man’s wife cried out. “Francis!” the woman repeated over and over in a panic while grabbing his hand.

  Holly felt for a pulse at the carotid artery on the neck. When she didn’t feel one, she began chest compressions. After a moment, Jack slid in beside her and took over doing compressions while Holly checked the man’s vitals, in sync as always. A group formed around them, and overhead a code was called. A stretcher was rushed into the room, along with a crash cart. Jack stopped compressions while Holly took the defibrillator and placed it to the man’s chest.

  Nurses buzzed around them, putting monitors on his fingers, and readying him for the stretcher, when Holly heard a heartbeat start up again. She let out the breath she’d been holding.

  “Is he going to be okay?” the older woman cried as they lifted the man onto the stretcher and rushed him from the cafeteria. Holly was at his side, directing every move.

  Jack’s voice was faint as the distance increased between them, but Holly’s heart swelled with pride when she heard Jack’s response. “Well, if you’re unfortunate enough to have a heart attack, you can’t make your odds any better than doing it in front of Dr. Whitacre.”

  Chapter 2

  Jack leaned forward in the waiting room chair outside of Danforth’s office, the uncomfortable plastic not encouraging anyone to wait for too long. This wing of the hospital housed all of the hospital admins. Their joint receptionist eyed Jack.

  Jack’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket.

  Holly: On my way up.

  A piano version of “Winter Wonderland” played over the speakers, a soundtrack to the lightly falling snow he saw out the window. They didn’t usually get this much snow in Bridger, Colorado, before Christmas, but it had come in an almost steady stream since Thanksgiving.

  Jack stretched his legs out and pulled up the email on his phone he’d received right before lunch with Holly, his stomach tightening again. He was never one for indecision, but he hadn’t anticipated receiving an offer to Denver Central Medical Center’s new radiology unit. He scanned the message. More money. Better hours. It was exactly the kind of job he’d been working toward. There shouldn’t even be a debate.

  And yet …

  Holly walked into the admin nook, her cheeks flushed with post-surgery adrenaline. She paused at the receptionist desk to say hello and ask about the woman’s grandchildren, giving Jack a moment to take her in.

  She’d pulled her blond waves back into a ponytail that swung playfully with every step. Jack had been tempted more than once to tug on her ponytail, but he thankfully always managed to curb the urge. They weren’t children on the playground, yet the lightness he often felt around her made him forget that fact too often.

  It also made him forget she’d been married to his best friend, whom she still loved, making her very unavailable. He didn’t used forget these facts quite so often, but lately it was like a constant mantra in his head.

  Jack powered down his screen and stuck his phone in his jacket pocket while Holly approached him. He could tell from her smile that surgery had gone well. “Did you manage to interview him for your show before the anesthesia hit?” he asked.

  “Ha, ha.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t dim. “It’s a good thing I thought they were so cute, or I might not have seen the signs of his heart attack so quickly.”

  “It was impressive.” Jack had still been wiping caramel off his fingers when Holly had raced across the room to check the man’s pulse. She’d definitely been several steps ahead of him that morning. Most mornings. It was what made her such an incredible doctor.

  “But yes. I’m going to head down after this meeting and see if he’s a good fit for the show.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Hey, don’t pretend like you don’t watch my channel faithfully.”

  He did, but it had nothing to do with caring one little bit about love stories. He didn’t even agree with the whole premise of her show—that everyone had one great love story. But he’d seen how the show had helped Holly come out of the dark place she’d been in after Dallon died, and for that, he was glad.

  The door opened and Danforth stuck his head out. “Oh, good. You’re both here.” They stood and followed him inside. Danforth’s office was definitely a step up from Holly’s and Jack’s offices. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the walls behind him, showing them the incredible view of the mountain range behind him. Jack had a windowless box of an office with a water-stained oak desk that had probably been there since the hospital was built in 1950.

  “Let’s get right down to business,” Danforth said once they’d both taken a seat in front of him. “Veronica quit.”

  He felt Holly stiffen beside him. Veronica had been running the Bridger Cares Foundation since Dallon’s death.

  “Why?” Jack asked.

  Danforth shook his head. “Swiped by Denver Central Medical Center. She’s been emailing with them for a couple of months and just let us know. We’ve lost about thirty doctors to them already. You guys aren’t going to leave, too?” he joked.

  “Of course not,” Holly answered.

  Jack’s email offer burned a hole in his pocket, but he put it out of his mind. He wasn’t going to take the job.

  “What does this mean for the foundation?” Holly continued.

  Danforth leaned forward in his chair, his fingers templed in front of him. “Kendrick Collins is going to step into the position for the foreseeable future.”

  “Kendrick will be great.” Holly’s breath of relief was palpable.

  Jack withheld his own relief. Why would Danforth bring them both in to tell them Kendrick was taking over? He could have emailed them.

  “He will,” Danforth agreed. “But this does bring us to another … situation.”

  And here it was. Jack folded his arms, his gaze steely.

  Danforth cleared his throat nervously before turning back to Holly’s more welcoming smile. “Veronica was in charge of our Christmas dinner fundraiser.” He paused when Holly’s smile dimmed. “Kendrick is on PTO for the month of December. In Hawaii with his family.”

  Jack blinked. “And this concerns us because …?”

  “Without the funds we’ll earn from the Christmas dinner, the foundation will not be able to proceed next year.”

  “What?” Holly leaned forward in her seat. “How’s that possible? Dallon secured dozens of grants, and the hospital agreed to match whatever he brought in! We should not be dependent on a dinner.”

  If Danforth had a collar to loosen, no doubt the man would have done so. As it was, his face turned maroon and beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. Jack wanted to revel in the man’s obvious discomfort, but he could see where this meeting was going, and it was nowhere good for him.

  “The hospital has had to redirect some funds to the new pediatric and women’s wing.” In an attempt to compete with Denver Central, Bridger University Hospital was undergoing major construction on the east wing of the hospital—both slated to be done in the next fifteen months. The newness of it was almost jarring when compared to the dingy appearance of their ER. But emergency care didn’t bring in the money.

  “So we’re reliant on grants now?” Fire flickered in Holly’s eyes. “The hospital isn’t giving us any money.”

  “Now, we’re still donating the office space for the foundation’s clinic hours,” Danforth defended, “which is no small expense.”

  “The office space that sat unused for years,” Jack cut in dryly. “And which you can write off on taxes for charitable use.”

  Danforth sat back in his chair as if the wind had gone out of him. “It’s not ideal, but this is what we have to work with. You know I believe in Bridger Cares as much as you do, but the owner of the hospital had to make some cuts when costs start
ed to run more than they anticipated, and this is one of the cuts. I’m going to keep working to convince him to match the grant funding, but in the meantime, I need you two to run the Christmas dinner.”

  “When is it?” Jack growled.

  “Friday, December 18th.”

  A beat of silence passed. Holly’s fingers turned white in a tight grip on her legs.

  Jack narrowed his eyes at the man, but it appeared he had no idea. The Christmas party was scheduled for the anniversary of Dallon’s death. Jack resisted the urge to rub at the headache growing behind his right eye. “What’s been done?” he barked.

  Danforth’s jaw tightened. “Veronica said she reserved the venue, an event room at the ski resort, but that’s it.”

  “Invitations haven’t even gone out? It’s in three weeks!” Jack didn’t know much about throwing a party, but he did know busy doctors needed more than three weeks to plan for an event—especially around the holidays when people were on PTO or had family coming in from out of town. He’d been planning on working overtime for the next three weeks so he could squeeze out a little time off to spend with his daughter, Shiloh.

  “I’ll forward you Veronica’s email,” Danforth said. “It has all the details, but I do have to warn you, there aren’t many. It seems as though she’d mentally checked out long before she actually quit.” He leaned back in his chair, completely deflated. “I would have brought you in on this sooner, but I only found out this morning.”

  Holly remained quiet beside him. He couldn’t ask her to do this. She couldn’t be expected to plan a party for the anniversary of the night her husband died.

  But if he didn’t do this, the foundation might have to close down, and Dallon’s legacy would be gone. “Is there anyone else who could take over?” Jack asked.

  “No one as invested in seeing it succeed as you two. Kendrick will take over completely once he’s back.”

  Jack sucked in a deep breath. With one email, he could leave all of this. Go to the new hospital, with better equipment. Work less hours. Have more money.

  And leave Holly. Not only to deal with all of this on her own, but not see her as often.

  “I’ll do it,” he said, sounding as bleak about the prospect as he felt. What did Jack know about running an event? He’d had his head in books since his late teens. And he didn’t really like people, much less want to hang out with them outside of work.

  “What?” Holly turned to him, her eyes wide with shock, at the same time Danforth breathed out a hearty, “Thank you!”

  Danforth reached forward to shake their hands. Holly returned it limply, and Jack kept his arms folded until Danforth awkwardly retracted his hand and rubbed it against his other one. “Yes, well. I know you two will do a great job.”

  Jack placed his hand on Holly’s back and ushered her out of Danforth’s office. She paused outside the closed door and leaned back against him slightly, her body trembling. “I can’t throw a party on the eighteenth.”

  “I know,” Jack said grimly. He gently squeezed her shoulder, hating that every part of him was more alive with her close. Focus on the problem at hand, Jack; don’t create new ones. “But I can.”

  At least, he hoped he could. After all, he thought—as Holly hugged him, and he closed his eyes against the agony of wishing things were different—he was the king of impossible situations.

  Chapter 3

  Holly rapped lightly on the hospital door before heading inside Francis Hendrickson’s room. His wife, Pauline, sat by his bed in one of the standard-issue, faux leather green hospital chairs, a closed mystery novel on her lap as she dozed quietly. The room was silent except for the nurse, who sat on a stool beside the bed, tapping into her laptop; the beep of monitors assessing his vitals; and the steady whoosh of oxygen.

  “How’s our patient doing?” Holly asked the nurse as she looked over her shoulder at the notes. His vitals had remained in a good range, while the patient mostly slept, which was normal after all the medications they’d pumped through him in the ER to regulate his heart rate, followed closely by anesthesia.

  “He’s feeling weak. No appetite yet,” the nurse replied. “His oxygen levels have been staying in the nineties with minimal assistance.”

  Mrs. Henrickson’s eyes opened. She shared an exhausted smile with Holly.

  “Is your book any good?” Holly asked, indicating the novel.

  “Not good enough to distract me today, unfortunately.” Pauline frowned.

  “I imagine it’s been a tough day.” She’d been in that place before: sitting by the hospital bed, contemplating the immense fragility of life, knowing it could only take a single second for your entire world to change.

  She’d almost taken today off, but what would she have done at home? Think about Dallon all day, what their future might have looked like if he and Jack hadn’t stayed late after the symposium to answer questions? Thoughts like those had plagued her for months after the accident, and she had no desire to dwell on them again for any length of time.

  Working was the absolute best thing she could do. Until Danforth dropped the Christmas party time bomb into their laps. There had to be a way to get more money for the foundation that didn’t involve her showing up in a ball gown with shiny hair and a winning smile to a party on the eighteenth.

  “He’s been mostly sleeping since surgery,” Pauline offered while Holly did her visual exam. “But his color has come back and he seems to be sleeping restfully.”

  “Those are all great signs. If he continues to look this good, we may be able to move him out of the ICU tomorrow.” The continual faint beep of the heart rate monitor counted out a steady beat in the background, along with the regular hum and hiss of the blood pressure cuff on his arm.

  Before Holly could gently nudge Francis awake, Pauline’s frail, age-spotted hand shot out and took Holly’s. “Thank you,” she said. “For saving his life.”

  Holly smiled gently. She’d received many thanks in her years of being a cardiologist. It used to make her uncomfortable and she’d deflect when possible, but after Dallon’s death, she’d learned the power of people accepting your thank-yous. So many people had helped her and been there for her—from taking her shifts at the hospital to helping her pack up her house—and when she couldn’t give anything in return but a thank-you, she was grateful when they’d received it. Since then, she’d made an effort to always accept the thank-you, even when her instincts demanded she say that Francis had been lucky to be in the right place at the right time, or that it had been a team effort in the surgical room.

  Instead, she nodded her head solemnly and said, “You’re welcome.”

  Holly touched Francis’s shoulder. He awoke and looked around, confused in the seconds before his eyes cleared. The room lights had been dimmed to mimic the darkness outside. It wasn’t quite eight o’clock, but once the night shift came on, night descended as much as possible—which, to be honest, wasn’t very possible—in the units.

  “I’m about to head home, but I want to check the incision before I go.”

  Francis let her pull his gown aside, and she noted the chest tube drained clear fluid and looked good, along with the skin near the bandaging. “Good as new,” Francis said, his voice hoarse from the intubation tube they’d placed during surgery.

  “You should be in a few weeks.” She explained they’d need to do more tests to make sure the rest of his heart was in good condition, and he’d be on medication for the rest of his life, but they would do all they could to make sure he had more time.

  Francis and his wife held hands while she finished her assessment by listening to his lungs. She pulled her stethoscope from her ears and smiled at the couple while she checked his hands and feet for swelling.

  “I would love to hear your love story before your release,” she said. “You two caught my eye in the cafeteria earlier today, the love between you was so apparent.”

  “A heart doctor interested in love?” Francis raised his bushy, gray b
rows.

  “I know.” She gave them a mischievous smile. “It begs the question of which came first: my interest in the heart anatomically or metaphorically.”

  Francis laughed shortly, then stopped with a hand near his side.

  “Hurts a little?” she asked.

  He waved his hand like it was nothing, but she knew heart surgery had a way of making entire bodies ache—and laughing took more muscles than most people realized. “Tell her,” Francis encouraged his wife.

  “It’s not terribly exciting. He’s a reporter for the Bridger Daily,” Pauline said. “We met when he interviewed me for a story he was doing on the war. Love at first sight.”

  Holly had noticed the Marine tattoo on his right bicep during surgery. He was the right age to have served in the Vietnam War. She recalled a history class in her undergrad studies that talked about the impact the war had had on American culture—everything from songs and protests to entire subcultures built around love and peace. She’d never done an interview for her MyHeartChannel show with this angle before, and her intrigue grew.

  “That’s not how it happened,” Francis said, his eyes bright. “The first time we really met was at your aunt’s birthday breakfast.” His words faded.

  As much as she wanted to hear the rest of the story—and she loved nothing more than when the two people she was interviewing interpreted the details of how they met differently—it would have to wait. It was better to not talk too much and risk irritating his inflamed vocal cords.

  Holly stepped to the sink in the room and washed her hands. “I’ll have to hear your side of the story when I check on you tomorrow. Dr. Patel will be by in a few hours to peek in on you, but for now, rest your voice and focus on sleeping.”

  “Kind of hard to do when there’s someone constantly waking him up,” Pauline said, not unkindly.