by Dianne Drake
Five minutes later, Catherine returned with tea and a tin of biscuits she’d scrounged from the kitchen. Since she had to be back on duty in less than six hours now, this wasn’t what she needed to be doing. She knew that, and on her way to the kitchen she’d convinced herself to drop the tea and biscuits off at Dante’s suite and hurry along home. But on her way back from the kitchen she’d argued herself out of that decision once more by assuring herself that a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. Now, at his door, she was vacillating, on the verge of going back to her first decision to go straight home.
Then Dante opened the door, and the dim light from the hall caught his face in silhouette, causing a barely perceptible gasp to escape her lips. So handsome…Suddenly, the years between them disappeared, and this was Catherine standing at the door to Dante’s apartment in Boston, waiting to enter, waiting to tumble into the arms and into the bed of the man she’d known, even then, could break her heart. She hadn’t cared back then, and at this moment, with her next work day separated from this moment by only the thinnest ribbon of sleep, she didn’t care now. She entered, and shut the door behind her.
“I’m surprised you came back,” he said, wheeling his way to the small kitchen. “I didn’t expect you to. I figured you’d have second thoughts and drop off the tea with Nurse Reasnor so she could deliver it.” He already had the kettle on, the steam from it on the verge of rolling into a whistle.
“I didn’t expect me to either,” she said, placing teabags into the two cups he’d set out. “But since I’d lost half a night’s sleep already, I didn’t figure another few minutes would make much of a difference one way or another. And tea sounded good.” Almost as good as a little quiet time with Dante.
“You keep horrible hours, Catherine,” Dante commented, handing her a plate for the biscuits. “That’s probably the thing about being a doctor I miss least—the ungodly hours. In racing, we can keep horrible hours if we want, but it’s a choice, not a requirement like it is in medicine, where it’s simply part of the job.”
“I can deal with it. I’ve been doing it for years, and I’m used to it.”
“Used to it, maybe, but it’s not good for you on a regular basis, and those bags under your eyes tell me it’s on a regular basis. Besides, so many hours of work, and no play, will make you very old, very fast. And you don’t ever play, do you, Catherine? Somehow I imagine that you don’t.”
He was correct. She didn’t. But she didn’t answer him. No need to seem so pathetic or desperate. Rather, she placed the biscuits on the plate, handed it back to Dante, and carried the cups of tea over to the table in the bayed alcove, with windows that looked out over the expanse of the foothills just beyond Aeberhard. At this time of the night, the white sea of newly fallen snow was awash with twinkling lights from cottages and chalets dotting the countryside, more in isolated glimmers standing well apart from each other than in tight clumps like fairy-lights on a Christmas tree. That was one of the things she loved most about this area—people didn’t feel the need to cram themselves together. They stretched out, appreciating the countryside and surrounding themselves with it. Yet they were neighbors, even if they did nestle in separately at what might have been several city blocks by American standards. Breathing room—that’s the way she thought of it. The people here allowed themselves breathing room.
“It’s beautiful at night,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “I’m not sure I could ever return to the United States, after seeing all this. Over there it’s too…”
“Crowded,” Dante supplied, wheeling himself in under the table. “That it is, and I hate crowds.”
“But you attract crowds.”
“In my professional life, yes. That’s part of it. But I have other, more private parts of my life where the crowds and notoriety are not allowed. For instance, I live in a little area in Tuscany much like this—many neighbors, but not so close in.” He smiled. “Plenty of breathing room there.”
“When we were together I never knew you lived in Tuscany,” she said. She’d known he was from Italy, but it had never occurred to her to ask where. And it had never occurred to him to tell her until after he’d left her
“In a lemon grove, actually. My villa sits up on a hill overlooking my few trees. It’s a very small grove, and a small villa, but it suits me. And I have all the breathing room I need there.”
She saw the wistfulness come over him as he talked of it. Surprising as it seemed, having had a torrid affair with this man, she’d never seen that expression before. “What do you do with the lemons?” she asked, not sure why she even cared.
“Give them away.” He laughed. “You can only make so much lemonade, then you have to do something else with the lemons, so my friends and neighbors are allowed to come pick as they need.”
“You’re a farmer, then.” Now, that was a surprise. Doctor, racer, farmer…a man of many talents.
“I suppose you could say that, couldn’t you? But I do have to admit I don’t tend the lemon grove so much as merely own it. It’s more a hobby, I think.”
“Do you miss medicine, Dante?”
That wistfulness returned. “At times. I was the one who strayed from the family fold to go into medicine, and I think that was more from rebellion than anything else. My family was very demanding. At least I thought so when I was young. It didn’t seem like I was given any choices—I would race. It was expected, but I was the restless one who wanted to see what else the world had in store for me.
“Dario stayed with the family, carried on the racing tradition. It made my parents happy that one of us did as we were supposed to do. But I was the one who always had to do things differently, so I became a doctor. I’d always wanted it, my father didn’t encourage it, which probably made me want it all the more.” He shrugged as he picked up his teacup. “None of which matters now. I’m back in the family fold, doing what was expected of me all along, carrying on the tradition I was always meant to be part of. And I like it. I’m glad to be back because I’ve discovered that racing is as much a part of me as being a surgeon was. Unfortunately, they are two different lives that can’t fit together.” He chuckled, but sadly. “Dario always told me I’d come back. He wanted me to so we could race against each other. Two Baldassares on the track at the same time, as teammates and competitors. I’m sorry I missed that opportunity, and caused my brother to miss it.”
“I’m so sorry about your brother,” she said. He’d told her the vague details of Dario’s death, but had never elaborated. She’d read the rest in an old sports magazine. It had been a car crash during a race in France. He was said to have been the best driver during that particular race, and no one knew, for sure, what had happened, apart from a little slickness on the track. Just one of those fluke accidents—something she knew so well from her work, from her life. From her father. “It must have been very difficult for your family, losing him that way. And for you. Twins are so close…”
Dante nodded. “It was, and we were. But we’re a close family, which helped us all get through it.”
“And you took your brother’s place?”
He shot her a caustic glance over his teacup. “Not his place. I took my own place in racing. The place I was supposed to be and too stubborn to admit that I wanted it.”
And had done very well in it, from all accounts. “And your career as a surgeon?”
He shrugged. “I tell myself I’ll go back to it someday, and maybe I will. But I don’t know. Life gets complicated, and I’m not sure it’s wise to make too many plans. Lesson learned the hard way.”
“But you would?” She sensed real sadness in him. Maybe he was a man torn between the love of too many lives. Her father had been, and in the end it had hurt him deeply. Had hurt her so deeply, too.
“Perhaps.” He picked up a biscuit, studied it for a moment, then gave it a lackluster toss back onto the plate. “But right now I’m a racer. That’s all there is. The car, the race course and a damned broken ankle keeping me fro
m being where I need to be.”
“Does anybody else in your family race?” His family name was big in the sport, but that’s all she knew.
“My father and his brother own the racing team. Cristofor works on the mechanic crew. He’s been behind the wheel a few times, but we’ll wait and see what catches on for him and if he decides he wants to drive later on. And I have two cousins, one who’s starting to come along in racing and one who intends to drive when he’s a little older. He’s only fifteen now. Also, my mother manages the business aspects, and two of my three sisters arrange all the publicity and handle the events we’re required to attend.” He smiled, raised the cup to his lips. “Then I have several nephews, all who want to race. But that’s a decision a long way into the future as none of them is over the age of eight. Instead of slapping the baby’s behind when a Baldassare child is born, it’s said the doctor gives them a pair of racing goggles and a helmet.” He chuckled, then took a sip of his tea.
This was nice, and as she sipped her own tea she actually relaxed, slid down a little in her seat and felt all the tension drain right out of her. Dante had always had that effect on her, something as good as a massage. At the end of a rotten day, even if whatever happened between them wouldn’t lead to the bedroom, just being with him relaxed her in ways nothing else ever had.
“Better than a sedative,” she said, not meaning for that to slip out.
“Excuse me?”
Time to leave before she relaxed enough to say something she would regret. Catherine pushed her cup aside, and stood. “Since I’ve got to go back to work in a few hours, I think I need to at least appear like I’ve slept. But this has been nice, Dante. Very surprising, very pleasant. And nice.” She sincerely meant that.
“And tomorrow you’ll turn back into that mean, rather dictatorial doctor, won’t you? It’s a pity, Catherine. I like you better this way.” He followed her to the door. “The question is, which way do you like yourself?”
She should take offense, as this was none of his business. Nothing about her was his business. But she was too tired, and she didn’t want to give up the lingering mellow feeling that was fighting to hang on. So she decided to let it go. No fight left in her tonight. “The way I like me is the way I function best for my patients.” She laid her hand on the doorknob. “That’s all there is, Dante. All there can be for me. All I want.”
“You always wanted so much more, Catherine.” He rolled up alongside her and laid his hand on top of hers. “There’s always so more to be had if you want it, and I can’t believe that you don’t.”
The spark that arced between them felt more like a flame, and she jerked her hand out from under his. Before, they’d had sparks, but not like this. She looked at the back of her hand for a moment, nearly expecting to see the tracing of a slight burn. When she didn’t, she grabbed the doorknob fast and opened the door, then quickly stepped into the hall before something like that happened again. Then she turned back to face Dante. “Maybe there’s more to be had, but I don’t want it, Dante. None of it. What I have now is exactly what I’d planned for my life and I don’t want that to change.” With that, she turned and hurried away.
The exit loomed in the distance, and she was still hurrying to get out of there, to get home to claim sleep in the few hours left to her, when the page came in. In the form of her cellphone jingle, though. “We have an anaphylactic reaction in Room 118,” the voice on the other end told her. “Dr Meijer is with another patient who’s having chest pains, so as you’re on call…”
So much for sleep. Catherine spun round and ran in the opposite direction, her feet slapping hard on the floor. She turned at the first corner, barely clearing the wall in her haste, and dashed straight into Room 118, where Mrs Gunter, a middle-aged, strikingly beautiful woman recovering from a bad fall and a shattered knee, was having trouble getting her breath. She was wheezing, panicking, her color was going dusky and Nurse Muller wasn’t being too successful at quieting the woman down.
For good reason. When Catherine took a look, the first thing she noticed was that the woman’s airway was significantly swollen. She was slowly suffocating. “I want Benedryl in the IV, stat,” she called. Benedryl had strong properties to combat allergic reactions. “And get me an oxygen set-up.”
Catherine took another look, saw that the woman’s lips were going blue now. Putting a stethoscope to her chest, what she heard made her realize that she had to get an airway established immediately or Mrs Gunter was going to die. What little air going in and out was barely enough to sustain life, and with each passing second that capacity was decreasing. This woman wasn’t going to survive if Catherine didn’t get her breathing established, right now! Benedryl wasn’t going to be fast enough, damn it! “I want Dr Meijer in here!” she shouted. “Get him!”
“Can’t!” Nurse Muller cried, running out the door after the emergency supplies. “His patient is—
“Then get me a tracheotomy set-up. And find another nurse to help me prep my patient for surgery. Now!”
No time to waste, no time to ponder anything other than what she had to do. Catherine cranked the head of the bed flat, pulled out the pillows and shoved away the bedside stand and chair to give herself better access. Then she returned to her patient to have another listen to her chest. Breath sounds were diminishing more, and Mrs Gunter was beginning to lose consciousness. Her life expectancy was now reduced to minutes, and precious few of those. “We’re going to get you breathing right away,” Catherine reassured, even though the woman’s eyes were closed and she was close to going unconscious.
She didn’t want to perform a tracheotomy—that was a job for a surgeon, and one she’d done only as a student, and then only a couple of times. But there wasn’t another choice here. She had to do it, and as she was prepping herself, her mind clicking through the process in rapid bullet points, Nurse Muller flew back into the room, followed by Nurse Reasnor, who’d been on duty in Dante’s wing. One nurse carried the surgical kit, the other carried the drugs Catherine had ordered.
Without a word, Catherine grabbed the kit, tore it open, and found the Betadine scrub. But as she was about to open it, Dante appeared at the bedside. “I can do this,” he said. “If you want me to.”
No argument, no time to question him. She knew he could. It was in his eyes, that old look she used to love when he was about to go into surgery. The determination that he was about to do something he loved, something good. In the best interests of what Mrs Gunter needed, it was a surgeon, and without a word Catherine stepped aside.
After Dante had pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, she poured disinfectant over Mrs Gunter’s neck and in the blink of an eye he sliced an incision across the woman’s neck, inserted his fingers into the wound through to her windpipe and pulled back enough tissue so that Mrs Gunter was able to draw in a good breath, one that sailed past all the swelling that had tried to stop it.
At the same time Catherine took the plastic tracheotomy tube from the kit and slipped it into Mrs Gunter’s neck. It would keep her air passage open and allow her to breathe through it until the swelling was gone. A minute later it was in place, oxygen was running into it, and medications were flowing into the patient’s veins.
Crisis averted in mere minutes. Mrs Gunter was going to be fine in another few hours, amazing as that seemed. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m not sure I’d have been fast enough to…I haven’t done a trach in years, and…” She gave him a genuine smile. “I’m glad you came along when you did.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d let me. It was a simple procedure, but after all this time—”
“You were good,” she interrupted, as another thought washed over her now that the emergency was over. “You always were. But, tell me, how did you know what was happening?”
“Natural reaction. Nurse Reasnor was in my room, trying to convince me to take a sleeping pill, when she got the call. I heard there wasn’t a surgeon on duty, and I didn’t even think about it.” He
shrugged. “I just came.”
Was that it, really? “Did you think I wasn’t capable?” she snapped. “Is that it? You didn’t think I could do what needed to be done? I mean, you did question me being director here, so were you also questioning my ability to perform a tracheotomy? Is that what this was about, Dante?”
He opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it and backed away. “Goodnight, Catherine.” Stiff voice, stiff demeanor. Angry face. “I hope you get some sleep tonight.” With that, Dante spun around and wheeled away, leaving Catherine to watch after him until he disappeared around the corner. She was numb. Numb and totally dumbstruck because she wasn’t sure. Had him taking over been a natural reaction, as he’d said, or a decision based on something else, such as his doubting her abilities?
She wanted to believe it had been an innocent, decent gesture. Truly wanted to believe that. But her life history was fraught with so many people stepping in, taking control, making decisions for her without first asking her, that she truly didn’t know. And right now she didn’t have time to figure it out as she needed to take another look at Mrs Gunter. But even as she assessed the woman’s breathing, which had returned to normal, and took her vital signs, which were evening out, she wondered about Dante’s motives. For the patient, she told herself. He did what he did for the patient. Thinking anything else was silly, and a bit self-centered. Dante was a good doctor—still a good doctor—and it shone through. He might have a love of racing, but his love of medicine was still there, too. And that’s what it had been about. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing else.
She was glad he’d been the one to do the procedure, and the way she’d turned on him hadn’t been fair. Wasn’t totally unexpected either, given their personal situation. Even so, she owed Dante an apology.
Why am I being so reactionary?
Because she was letting her personal life slip over into her professional life. Something she never did. Time to get a grip, Catherine. Time to get a great big grip and put a wall up between the two.
