“She’s been treated by a Chinese traditionalist and had a cupping.”
Jason screwed up his face. “A what?”
“You’ve heard of Ying and Yang.”
He nodded, his expression unchanged, which almost made her laugh.
“Her Yang is working overtime, and by cupping they tried to put her back in balance. The heat from the cups is supposed to suck out the toxins and restore her health.”
“Well, it obviously hasn’t worked this time around,” he said. “She’s feverish and congested and probably needs an antibiotic.”
Claire nodded. “So her daughter made the appointment with you.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Ching’s daughter even knows she’s been treated with Chinese traditional medicine?” he said.
“Good question. Why don’t you give her a call?”
As Claire prepared to leave, Jason stopped her by reaching for her arm. The contact startled her, but she held her reaction close. “I would have put this poor woman through a full panel of blood tests to try and figure out what had caused those welts, if you hadn’t been so astute. Your quirky background is proving to be very helpful.”
A smile tickled across her lips, and Jason telling her that he appreciated her alternative medical expertise kept the smile spreading wider and wider.
“Cost-effective, even,” he added, with a look of chagrin.
She opened her eyes with a mocking “no kidding” stare.
He shook his head and forced a partial smile. “And yes, that was hard for me to say.”
She liked how his stately features seemed to pool into a puddle of warmth when he smiled. How his eyes relaxed and creases bracketed his mouth. Satisfaction trickled across her skin. “Then your compliment means all the more,” she said.
He clicked back into his tough guy act. “Don’t let it go to your head, Albright.” She knew it was all show.
She gave him one last grin. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, and turned to leave.
The third week after Claire Albright’s arrival, Mrs. Crandall had responded beautifully to daily massage to the point of having her antidepressant decreased. Jenny Whatley continued to sing the praises of table salt, the waiting room patients commented how much they enjoyed the pleasant aroma while they waited for their appointments—the very same aromatherapy which no longer sent him searching for a tissue. Jason had changed his mind about Claire’s alternative voodoo practices.
After reading her Herbal Medicine book from cover to cover, he decided to test her out and refer one of his patients to her.
“Forty-nine-year-old Hispanic female with chief complaint of ongoing hot flashes. Hormone replacement is not an option. See patient history. Seeks alternative phytotherapeutics.”
Proud that he’d even used her terminology, he signed his name and marched down the hall to hand deliver the request for consultation. He wanted to see her reaction. Wanted to see her brighten and smile the way he’d come to enjoy. And he was fully prepared to receive an I-told-you-so smile—and even looked forward to it!
Claire’s door was closed. He tapped, but no one answered.
He thoroughly trusted his office staff, and assumed she’d requested a day off that he didn’t know about. Why should he? Her personal life was none of his business.
Jason walked back to his office and checked the schedule. Claire was supposed to be at work today.
Before he saw his next patient, he trotted down the stairs and asked Gaby where Ms. Albright was.
“She called in sick, Dr. Rogers.”
He tilted his head and went back to work but, before he reached his office, he slid his consult request into her in-box.
The next day, her door was still closed and the consult was exactly where he’d left it. And on the fourth day, Thursday, he marched into René’s office.
“Jason, this is a surprise.”
“I was wondering where Claire has been, and if she’s all right.”
René’s greeting smile faded. “She’s had a setback.”
He sat. “What do you mean?”
“I think she has some sort of chronic ailment, and she got a virus which has knocked her for a loop.”
“Has anyone checked on her? Is she all right? What about the child?”
“I’ll call her later, if you’d like.”
Thinking he’d like to be the one to call her, he deferred to René’s offer. He had no business checking up on Claire. She was merely a business associate. Would he run out and call Jon if he was home sick? Why treat Claire any differently?
On Friday, René came to Jason’s office. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve spoken to Claire. She is still quite miserable, poor thing. But she’s hanging in. Maybe she’ll get her strength back over the weekend.”
“Yes. Well, I guess flu can really take its toll.” He didn’t want to let on to René how worried he was about Claire and her daughter. He had no right to be.
Then he remembered that Claire hadn’t signed up for automatic deposit and today was a pay day. The other day, when she’d wiggled her fingers in the air at his office door, he’d noticed she didn’t wear a wedding band. And by the way little Gina ate up his attention when he’d read to her, he suspected there was no man in her life. Someone needed to make sure she got paid.
Gaby had left for the day. They closed the clinic down two hours early every other week on Friday afternoons.
As soon as René left, he looked up Claire’s home address and made plans to deliver her check. He could postpone his planned weekend sailing trip until Saturday morning.
Jason chastised himself for allowing “feelings” to inch back into his life. He had no business getting “involved” with anyone. He was emotionally DOA—what could he possibly offer another living soul? He pictured Claire’s natural beauty and her disturbingly alluring personality, and shook his head.
She’d been off sick all week, she needed to get paid, and…maybe she needed a doctor?
The Italianate-styled house in Montecito suffered from years of neglect. Thick ivy vines covered the entire façade with cutouts for windows and the huge front door. The mansion sat in the middle of a cul-de-sac in a secluded neighborhood on a hill.
Jason parked his car and got out with the warm package he’d brought. He inhaled a faint hint of smoke. The last wildfires had come dangerously close to this area, and evidence of charred trees and hillside were in abundance in the near distance.
He strode under the portico to the door, and used the heavy brass knocker several times. After what seemed like close to a minute, a faint voice on the other side asked, “What do you want?”
It wasn’t Claire. In fact the voice seemed ancient and quivery.
“I’m here to see Claire Albright. She works at my clinic.”
The door squeaked open, and a frightfully thin woman with opaque skin marked with a map of blue and pink veins looked curiously into his face. She was dressed neatly, in clothes like his grandmother had used to wear. A wool skirt, with a sweater set and supportive black oxfords. Her mostly-white hair was pulled back into a thin knot.
“I have her home address as yours. I wanted to deliver her pay check. I’m sorry if I’ve made a mistake.”
He could see the woman weighing the circumstances in her mind. He was a stranger. Claire was a single mom. Yet he knew he looked official.
Jason reached in his suit pocket and held the pay check in a neatly addressed envelope for the woman to examine. If she didn’t trust him, she could deliver it to her tenant, though admittedly he’d be disappointed. He flashed a smile. The kind he used to gain the confidence of his patients.
“No mistake. Claire and Gina live in what used to be the maid’s chambers. And, since she works with you, I guess it would be all right. There’s a separate entrance at the back of the house.” She stepped outside, and pointed him around the corner of the gravel-filled driveway toward the back yard.
The first signs of twilight were bearing down on the da
y. The path looked dreary and cold, but at the end a tiny bungalow had a large planter bearing a burst of color beside the entrance. He’d never imagined Claire living in such a place. Her rent payments most likely helped the landlady pay her property taxes in the upscale county.
His soles crunched on the gravel as a rush of misgivings slowed his step. What the hell was he doing here? He hugged the warm container. Right. Delivering money and holistic penicillin.
He reached the stoop, took the stairs two at a time, and tapped on the door.
After he knocked again, Claire’s weak voice almost matched Mrs. Densmore’s in tone.
“It’s Jason. I’ve brought your pay check and, since I heard you’ve been sick, chicken soup to cure whatever ails you.” He tried to sound light and jovial, nothing like himself.
She opened the door. “Jason?”
He raised his brows. “In the flesh. You gonna invite me in, or are you quarantined?” He worked to disguise the shock he felt at her pallor, her frailty, her droopy hair. Every last sparkle had left her eyes.
“I look a mess,” she said.
“Hey, I’m a doctor. I deal with sick people every day.”
She wore an azure-blue spa-styled robe, which seemed to gobble her up due to obvious weight loss. Her shoulders slumped and the furry slippers she wore made a shuffling sound across the entryway as she walked him inside.
A small, untidy living room revealed she’d been lying on the sofa, with a dented pillow on one end and a crumpled blanket cast over the back. The bright peach living room walls contrasted with the dreary hostess, and a fireplace served to keep her warm.
“So here’s your pay check. Figured you might need it.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“If you need me to deposit it for you, I can do that, too.”
“That’s very kind.”
“You lie down,” he said. “Point me to the kitchen and I’ll heat this up.” He held up the bag with the soup in it.
She gestured toward the hall. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“You need to eat. Now sit.”
A few minutes later, after scavenging for a bowl to microwave the soup he’d bought from the best deli in Santa Barbara, he served her supper, and brought a bowl for himself.
She seemed grateful, but somehow humbled.
“This is so embarrassing. I hate for you to see me like this.”
He slurped a taste of broth. “Don’t give it another thought. Just eat.”
She took a dainty sip and nodded her approval. As she continued to eat, he surreptitiously studied her face. For the first time he noticed a faint butterfly rash across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Perhaps she was still feverish.
When she’d eaten half the bowl, she cast it aside on the coffee table. “It’s very good, but I’ve eaten so little all week, I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Then I’ll be back tomorrow morning with fresh rolls and fluffy eggs.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Of course you can. I’m a doctor. Let me help you get better. Now, tell me your symptoms and I’ll try to figure out if you need antibiotics or something. I’ve got my bag in the car; I can give you a check-up if you’d like. And, while I’m out there, I’ll bring in more wood for your fire and start this one up again.”
“It’s Lupus,” she broke in.
He stopped his rambling.
“I have Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. I caught an everyday virus, something Gina brought home from pre-school, and now I’m having a flare-up.”
That explained the rash on her face. “How long have you had SLE?”
“I developed it after Gina was born. I’d had lots of weird symptoms for years, but I think the post partum hormonal imbalance finally knocked me over the line.”
“I had no idea,” he said, feeling an overwhelming desire to somehow make her life better. Easier. She’d given no clue that she lived with a chronic autoimmune disease. Especially one that could be as debilitating as Lupus. “You’re under a doctor’s care?”
She nodded. “I see a Lupus specialist. And I add some complementary herbs to my regimen, too.” She offered a wan smile. “Sometimes the cure seems worse than the disease.”
No wonder she was such an alternative medicine advocate. Now it all made sense.
Satisfied she was doing the right thing, he relaxed. “Let me make you some tea.” He jumped up, wanting nothing more than to wait on her.
He realized, by her obvious hesitation, she probably didn’t want any tea, but even when sick, she was gracious.
“There’s some chamomile leaves in the cupboard next to the refrigerator,” she said in an anemic voice.
Or maybe she was just too weak to protest.
As he went about boiling water he called out, “Where’s Gina?”
“With her father.”
A pang of guilt made him realize he was relieved he wouldn’t see “squirt” on this visit.
“He picked her up this afternoon. The poor thing has been so good about my being sick all week. And my childcare lady has been picking her up every day. She even took her to pre-school. Mrs. Densmore has been watching her for a couple of hours in the evenings. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”
The predicament of being a single mother was daunting enough, Jason imagined, but having a chronic illness on top of it seemed unfathomable. Again, he marveled at how he’d never had a clue about Claire’s personal plight; how upbeat and cheerful she always seemed. Now that he knew, he’d find a way to help relieve her burden.
They sipped their tea, as Claire stretched out her legs and covered up with the blanket. He resisted tucking in her feet, using the poker to move a log around in the fireplace instead.
“Sometimes it’s too much to lift my head off the pillow. Charles couldn’t take the thought of living with an invalid, even though I rarely have flare-ups.”
“You mean to tell me he divorced you because of your Lupus?”
She nodded, a look of resignation dulling her features. “That and a perky waitress at his favorite harbor bar.”
Jason shook his head. As he drank his tea in silence, he thought of his deceased wife and what he’d give to have her back. Then he thought how stupid Claire’s husband was for turning his back on her. The Claire he knew at the clinic was vital and witty, feisty and bright, and…quit denying it…sexy.
Perky waitress or not, the man obviously didn’t know how lucky he’d been being married to a woman like Claire. But Jason didn’t know the whole story, so he reserved his full judgment.
Jason hoped Charles was at least good to Gina. If he did anything to hurt her…His blood pressure rose just thinking about the potential. Had he inadvertently transferred his feelings for Hanna to Gina? He hardly knew the child, yet he’d already seemed to form a bond. Didn’t he have an art gallery’s worth of drawings to prove they were special to each other? He couldn’t let that go any further.
A rueful smile creased his lips. Jessica and Hanna would never be a part of his life again, and their loss stained every breath he took with guilt and anguish. A kid like Gina and a woman like Claire only complicated things.
“Are you OK?” Claire asked.
“What?” For crying out loud, he’d come over here to help her feel better, and now she was the one worrying about him. “Oh, I’m fine. I was just thinking of the irony of it all. You’re a living breathing woman with a lot to offer, and I think your husband is a fool for leaving you.”
She made a weak attempt at a smile. “Thanks. It’s been hard, but things are looking up with the new job and all.”
“I’ll make sure you get paid sick leave,” he said, though usually any new employee needed to work three months before sick leave pay kicked in.
Her feeble smile grew stronger. “For such a grouch, you’re a prince. Thanks,” she said. He thought he saw a quick glint of life in her eyes, and he was willing to take the cheap shot as a sacrifice.
&nb
sp; “Moi? A grouch? Are you sure you’re not feverish?” He knew damned well he wasn’t an easy man to work for, but he was surprised she’d been so candid. That was something else he liked about her. She was honest with him. Hell, hadn’t she called him a closed-minded medical robot on her first day at work? That took guts.
He clapped his hands together. “So what time do you prefer breakfast?”
“Honestly, Jason, you don’t have to do that.”
Their eyes came together. He held her gaze long and sternly. “Don’t be a martyr.” Wasn’t that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black? But he’d made his stand and he wasn’t backing down now. “I want to help you, and I make a mean omelet.”
She laughed. It sounded more like surrender than joy. “Then I’ll have Cheddar cheese with fresh avocado slices on top.”
Ha! He might have to get up early to drive to the farmers’ market to find a ripe avocado, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. “As you wish, my lady.” Only because she’d called him a prince did the “my lady” tag occur to him. It sounded completely unnatural, something he’d never say, and he wanted to cringe the moment he’d said it. It felt too intimate and foreign when it slipped out of his mouth, but he’d said it and couldn’t take it back. He glanced at Claire, reclining on the sofa looking pale and angelic. Really? Had it felt that foreign to call her “my lady”?
“And sourdough toast,” she added, bringing him out of his convoluted, awkward and uneasy thoughts.
“Strawberry preserves?” he said.
“Marmalade, please.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t pegged you as a marmalade kind of girl.”
She forced a smile through her compromised state, and he recognized a trace of the vital woman he’d come to know at the clinic. He stood, crossed the room and straightened the blanket over her feet.
“I’ll be here at nine. I’ll bring the food. You bring your appetite.”
She gazed gratefully into his eyes. “I’ll do my best, boss.”
“See to it.” He stopped himself from patting her shoulder. “I’ll let myself out. You get a good night’s sleep. That’s an order.”
The Boss and Nurse Albright Page 5
