by Dianne Drake
Matter-of-fact words. Too matter-of-fact for the flash of anger he saw in her eyes. “Did you like the work?” he asked, trying to return to neutral ground.
“I loved the work,” she snapped. “But that wasn’t enough.”
No, definitely not neutral ground. And to top it all off, her body language was going rigid. What had been friendly and open was suddenly cold and defensive, which meant he was wandering down the wrong path with this topic. Or probably any topic right now, judging from the scowl onto her face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I’m sorry about being so abrupt. It’s an old wound that, apparently, isn’t as well healed as I thought it was.”
Old wound. At least it wasn’t something he’d said, and he was glad about that.
“He hurt you badly, didn’t he?” Paul refilled her wineglass and handed it to her. He might have liked to have made a night of it here, sitting and talking, but the truth was, he did have to get back to Bertrand’s party shortly. The night was still quite young, and he had work to do. Funny, that! In a way, he was like Solange—going only so far, then pulling away with an excuse of work. It was safe. He knew it. Apparently, she knew it, too.
“He pulled the rug out from under me. I thought we were partners in more ways than one, but we weren’t, as it happened. So I suppose you could say that I needed the rug pulled out. After three years, when you haven’t made the right commitments, they aren’t going to come along. Not in the sense that you want them to, anyway.”
“You mean as in marriage?”
“It went far beyond that. We were medical partners.” She paused, shaking her head vehemently. “Let me rephrase that. I thought we were medical partners, but in the end I was his employee, with no say in the practice. He decided it was time to go upscale, sold out and moved on up.”
“And here you are.”
“Here I am, doing what I want to be doing. Simple, predictable story. I let him do it, he did it. But the ending was as it should have been.”
“Even though you’re not over him.”
“I’m completely over him. Maybe a little bitter around the edges about the circumstances of my medical practice with him, and definitely much wiser when it comes to life and matters of the heart. I should have taken a better look at him from the start.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t see when you fall in love. Either it sneaks up on you or blindsides you and, however it happens, it’s not exactly an objective period in your life, is it? What you’re looking at isn’t necessarily what’s really there.”
“But you got over it, didn’t you?” Solange asked him, bending forward to spoon up a bite of the ice cream.
“Better than I thought I would once I saw that Joanna wasn’t the one for me, and I certainly wasn’t the one for her. She got happy when she left me, and the hell of it is, looking back, I’m not sure I ever saw her truly happy with me.”
“Did you get happy, too, when it was over?”
“Oddly enough, yes. Even though I didn’t end up with the love of my life like she did, I got happy. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t so torn between my obligations any longer—obligations like trying keeping the hospital funded and keeping my wife happy at the same time, which was nearly impossible since the expectations of both seemed to always be on a collision course with each other. So, you said you’re a little bitter, but is there any happiness in there for you now that you’re single again?”
“I’m getting happy. I’ve got a ways to go, but the biggest part, I think, is that I’ve found what I was meant to do. My work defines me, and being back here on Kijé, traipsing around in the mountains with Frère Léon, that’s what makes me happy.”
Paul spooned a bite of ice cream from the bowl, then raised it in the air for a toast. “Here’s to getting happy, one and all.”
Solange chinked ice-cream spoons with him, then smiled shyly. “I really am sorry for getting so grumpy and making all kinds of assumptions. Mood swings…Living in the mountains will do that to you, I think.”
“Apology accepted. Look, I’ve got to get back to Bertrand’s little soirée. Believe me, I’d much rather spend the rest of the evening here with you, but that’s what I do. I mingle with the people who will give me money, and there’s a lot of money to be had in there if I make the right connections. So what I’d like to do is take you back to my hospital in the morning, introduce you to the staff, get you acquainted with what we have available, then maybe travel up the mountain with you, if that’s OK. I have a few days before I need to leave Kijé, and since I’m going to get to show you mine, I’d love to have you show me yours.”
“You are talking hospital?” she asked, scooping up the last bite of ice cream.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And just why would you want to come back to my infirmary?”
“I need a reason?”
Solange laughed, then wrinkled her nose at him. “You’re not an easy man, Dr Killian.”
“That’s the reason,” he replied. “The way you do that cute little wrinkle to your nose. I’d like to spend more time with that wrinkle, get to know it better.”
“Not good enough since that wrinkle is strictly off limits to everybody now.”
“OK, I’d like to catch up with Frère Léon. Haven’t seen him for quite a while and he’s an old friend, so I’d like to see how he’s doing. Give him his yearly physical.”
“His physical? You’re telling me you’re Frère Léon’s physician?”
Paul dropped his linen napkin onto the table, then stood. “Yep, that’s what I’m telling you. So, have you made sleeping arrangements for the night?”
“The hotel is booked solid. I checked earlier. So I thought I’d probably go sleep in my truck.”
“Stay here tonight, Solange. In my room. I have two beds, and I know you’re dying to stretch out in the bathtub.”
“I appreciate the offer, Paul, but I’ll be fine in the truck. Really.”
He knew she would. Solange had a survivor’s heart. “Then you take the room alone tonight and I’ll sleep in the truck. And you can help yourself to all the bubble bath and perfumed soap you want.”
“I don’t want to chase you out of your bed. Believe me, I’ve spent many nights in the truck. It’s not a problem.”
“Where did you do your medical residency?”
“Chicago. Cook County Hospital.”
Cook County—one of the oldest and largest charity hospitals in the United States. That was impressive because by reputation it was demanding and by patient load grueling.
“Well, as you were at Cook County, I’m sure that you’re familiar with the old medical tradition called the on-call room?” Where beleaguered doctors on call, needed to be up and working at a moment’s notice, piled together in rooms full of beds simply to grab a little sleep any way they could, anywhere they could, until their services were next required.
“I’ve had my share of familiarity in on-call rooms. Hated the snorers, though.” She wrinkled her nose again. “Had enough of sleeping next to those in my days.”
“I don’t snore,” he said, heading to the door. “So consider this your on-call room for the night. Take either of the beds you want, and if you snore, and it disturbs me, I’ll wake you up and send you out to your truck. OK?”
Asking her to sleep in his room? Inviting her back to his hospital? Even thinking into next week and next month and next year and seeing Solange there? Outside in the hall, Paul leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. This was crazy. Absolutely crazy! “Not smart,” he muttered, straightening up and tugging his silk bow tie back into place.
Even now, though, realizing just how stupid this was, simply thinking about Solange Léandre still took his breath away.
In the bathtub, Solange watched the steam mist over the mirror before she shut her eyes and allowed herself to drift. Maybe eating Paul’s lobster, stretching out in his bubble bath and sleeping in his bed weren’t the wisest things to do�
�Maybe they were downright stupid…But Paul wasn’t like Mauricio, even though she tried to force the similarities on him. Not like him at all, which was the best thing that had happened to her in a long while. And he was so attractive, something she really shouldn’t be thinking about, even though she was. He was nice, too. A man who knew what he was about, and she liked that.
On that pleasant note Solange relaxed into her bath, let the raspberry-scented bubbles slide over her skin, and wiped everything out of her mind. Everything except, perhaps, the notion of what it might feel like to have Paul immersed in the raspberry bubbles with her.
CHAPTER THREE
SOLANGE was fascinated by the little town of Abbeville. She hadn’t been there before, and as she drove through the streets, following Paul’s SUV, she was tempted to stop and get out, walk around, greet the people, soak in the atmosphere. It was a friendly place from first impressions. Friendly, and alive with color. The short, straight dirt roads were lined with tiny wood-frame houses, each one painted in hues so bright it looked like an artist’s palette gone wild. Pinks and blues, reds and oranges…no color was too bold. No yard so ornamented and cluttered as to be gaudy either, judging from the cement statuary submitting to every imaginable form—elves and geese and pigs—all adorning the grassy patches outside the houses. And there were old rusty vehicles parked where the statuary wasn’t sitting, and over-stuffed couches and indoor beds pulled out onto the porches for easy outdoor living and to catch the cool, evening Kijé breezes.
It was an amazing splash of culture. Noisy street vendors selling everything from their push carts—fruits, shoes, cigarettes. People waving to her as she drove by, children chasing balls and kicking cans across the dirt road, dogs stretched out napping in the middle of the road and too lazy to move out of the way as Paul honked at them.
Seeing Abbeville in its fullest, everyday array made her love Kijé all the more.
“How did you find this place?” she asked Paul several minutes later, as they approached the wood-framed Killian Hospital. Unlike the other structures in Abbeville, it was white. Plain, dignified white, with no cement statuary, furniture or old vehicles in its yard.
“Frère Léon.”
“He does get around, doesn’t he?”
Paul nodded, laughing. “When Joanna and I arrived to work with one of the humanitarian organizations here, he approached us with the idea of starting it. There was no medical care anywhere near here, which made it the perfect place, not just in terms of proximity to so many of the smaller towns in this region but because the people here are outstanding—friendly, helpful. I think this is where I first realized that paradise isn’t about a beach chair, an unsullied stretch of sand and a tropical drink with a paper umbrella and a skewer full of fruit. And I owe it all to Frère Léon, a man of great insight…and foresight, who stranded me here for a day. He simply dumped me in the street and drove away in…” he glanced back at her truck “…that!”
“You, too?” Solange laughed. “He took me up to the old mission church in the mountains and didn’t come back for two days. By the time he returned to fetch me, I had two nurses and a short line of patients waiting to be seen. And I didn’t leave.”
“Tricky devil,” Paul said, taking Solange by the arm and leading her up to the entrance of the hospital.
He was all that, and more. Frère Léon had been her port in a very rough storm, and she owed him everything. “I don’t know what I would do without him.” She was pleased Paul shared her affection for the monk. In a way, it made them seem much closer already.
“We think there’s a possibility we might have a case of Pott’s disease,” Dr Allain Sebastian stated, his nose buried in a medical chart. Allain was second in command of Killian Hospital, after Isabella Mordecai, who was the chief of staff there. Paul had made the decision to leave the medical workings of the hospital in their capable hands when it had turned out that he had been spending more and more time away. It had been a good decision, too, because they were a dynamic team. Hardworking, smart and, best of all, dedicated to the kind of care the hospital stood for.
“Allain’s from an infectious disease program out of Boston,” he explained to Solange, as they both donned masks before entering the area of the patient wards. It was protocol. Universal precautions, no matter what the situation. Better safe and inconvenienced in some instances than sorry. “When he heard about all the perks we offer here, he couldn’t wait to apply for a job.”
“Perks!” Allain snorted, fighting back a grin. “Long hours, no pay. And the accommodations…I gave up a townhouse with a Jacuzzi for a room with a sink.” He winked at Solange. “What more could a man want?” He extended his hand to her. “I’ve been on my feet sixteen hours already and I’ve barely begun.”
“Believe me, I know those hours.” Solange laughed. “My name is Solange Léandre. Dr Solange Léandre. And, no, I’m not here to work.”
“That’s too bad, because I was already looking forward to eight straight hours of uninterrupted sleep tonight. Haven’t had one of those in months. So, are you open to bribes, Solange? Anything I own just to have you cover one shift for me.”
Solange smiled first at Allain, then at Paul. “I’m usually open to bribes, especially lavender soap and lobster dinners, but since I’ve had my share of those recently, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be awfully susceptible right now.”
“Lavender soap and lobster dinner?” Allain raised a skeptical eyebrow at Paul. “Don’t think I’ll ask.”
“Don’t think I’d tell even if you did,” she replied, smiling shyly at him. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks over the ideas Allain was forming, ideas she’d had herself.
“Well, I do have a fondness for lobster, if you should ever have any left over. Don’t care much for the lavender scent, though. At least, not on me. So, Solange, is this a social call or a professional one?” Pudgy and short, with a ruddy complexion and red hair, Allain Sebastian stepped back and appraised both Solange and Paul. Then he gave them a big, toothy grin.
“She’s here to demand one more hour a day from you,” Paul teased, faking a frown.
“Stop that!” Solange laughed, hitting playfully at Paul. “It should only take half an hour of Allain’s time. You’ll have the good doctor thinking I’m quite the mercenary.”
“And just when I finally quit believing all those rumors about the pirates on the Caribbean seas,” Allain quipped.
“It’s not quite a pirate’s ransom that I want,” Solange explained. “Just a few routine tests for my patients whenever the need arises. I have a little medical infirmary up in the mountains, and I don’t have the facilities for X-rays and lab work. I came to make arrangements here.”
Actually, Frère Léon had insisted she make the arrangements and had practically shoved her off the side of the mountain to get her to do it. Now she was here, she was glad she’d come. This was a wonderful facility. Neat, tidy. Clean. Paul was terrific. Allain was, too. And it was nice getting herself back into the medical community, around doctors, after being away from it this past year. Even if this was just a cordial acquaintance since she would rarely, if ever, have the need to come here again in person, she was enjoying the camaraderie. The working dynamics here were good, and the chumminess fun. Nothing like her last months at her clinic in Miami.
“Well, for your patients, Solange, I always have an extra half-hour. But in the meantime, I need to get back to that possible case of Pott’s because, to me, it’s just not quacking like Pott’s.”
“Quacking?” Solange asked.
“Quacking,” Allain repeated. “You know the old saying, ‘If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck…’”
“Then it must be a duck,” Solange supplied. “And your Pott’s disease isn’t quacking like Pott’s disease.” Pott’s disease, a form of tuberculosis, occurred when the TB bacillus escaped the lung and traveled throughout the body and lodged in the spine. It was a common occurrence, and in the Caribbean the leading c
ause of paralysis in young men.
“Something like that. He has the right symptoms, especially the paralysis below the waist. But he’s latent.” Latent TB, meaning he tested positive for exposure to the disease but didn’t have the actual disease. “And I couldn’t find any significant case history of Pott’s in latent TB.”
“Well, you’re right about that. You don’t normally see Pott’s in latent,” Solange replied. Then she deferred to Paul. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be stepping in here. I’m just the visitor.”
“The visitor who’s welcome to step in any place, any time she wishes,” Paul said, gesturing for Allain and Solange to follow him to the small, two-bed room where the patient, Agwe Bourg, was snoozing quietly in bed. “We don’t really have any kind of a medical hierarchy here so, by all means, step in, comment, offer opinion, order tests. It’s all welcome.”
“Why do I get the feeling that I’m working?” Solange asked, laughing.
“Because Paul’s like that. He just sneaks it in on you. And watch your pockets, Doctor. He’s been known to pick a few of those on occasion.”
“You left out the part where I make you think it was your idea to have your pockets picked,” Paul added, opening the door and walking straight to the bedside of Agwe Bourg, a man, probably in his mid-thirties, who had a wife and seven children depending on this diagnosis. “So in spite of Mr Bourg’s being latent, why would you suspect Pott’s, Dr Sebastian?” Paul asked, keeping his voice low so not to disturb his patient.
“Like I said, he has the latent diagnosis, which puts him close to the disease. Maybe not right on it, but definitely close. And he does have the other symptoms—paralysis, general malaise.” He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly through his mask. “But it’s not Pott’s. At least, that’s my gut instinct.”
Paul nodded, but said nothing, so Allain continued. “He’s in the right age category, though, so that’s not a rule-out.” Often, diseases that were difficult to diagnose were given a final diagnosis by ruling out other conditions and symptoms. Rule out enough factors, then take a good hard look at what was left.
