by JoAnn Ross
Doogie Howser gave him a long look that suggested he’d heard that denial before. “The EMT said you’re a trader.”
“At Harborstone Advisors Group. It’s a hedge fund,” Gabe tacked on, realizing the name probably wasn’t that recognizable to anyone outside the investment world.
He was wrong. The doctor lifted a brow and whistled under his breath as he made a note on the chart attached to the clipboard he was carrying. “Small pond, big fish.”
Which was exactly how Carter had described it the morning Gabe had interviewed.
“My brother worked there for a time,” the doctor said. “It didn’t suit him. He missed the floor, which surprised me, because whenever I see trading floors on the news, they look a lot like what I’ve always imagined Bedlam to be.”
“Says the doctor who chose to work in an Emergency Department,” Gabe said drily.
“Believe it or not, I’ve always found a well-run ED poetry in motion,” Kaplan responded. “But we all respond to different stressors. The same way patients view ERs differently than medical staff working in them, Harborstone didn’t match up well with Elliott’s risk DNA. Also, and this also may sound strange, coming from an ER doctor, he’d lost all sense of any life outside The Street. Which is why I recognize the same signs in you.”
That pissed Gabe off. “You don’t know me.”
“I know that your blood pressure is dangerously high.”
“Like you said, we all have our stressors.”
“True, and landing in an ER after nearly dropping a casket would cause anyone’s blood pressure to spike. The other pallbearers told the ambulance crew that you were already having symptoms of an attack before landing here. They first noticed them midway down the aisle when you got out of step.”
“I did not.” Gabe was sure of that. He thought.
The doctor’s only response was a shrug. “Your cholesterol is also in the high range. I’m guessing from living on takeout.”
Gabe couldn’t deny that. “Contrary to what people might believe, in my business we don’t have time to indulge in three-hour three-martini lunches.”
“My business doesn’t, either. Which is too bad. Not that I’m in favor of the three-martini lunches, but despite being a hospital, the cafeteria food here is largely made up of carbs, sugars and fats, and Americans all need to take more time to eat.
“The French and the Italians have the right idea. They’re not grabbing a bagel and coffee from a food truck, then gulping it down while checking their email. They walk to a café, drink coffee in an actual cup that isn’t cardboard and spend time talking with a friend. They’re careful about what they eat, they walk more and believe in a slower pace of life with more time off. Which is why they live longer.”
“Maybe it just seems longer,” Gabe shot back.
Kaplan’s half smile was more a smirk, suggesting that this was not the first time he’d heard that suggestion. “Six months after returning to the trading floor, my brother moved his family to Grenoble. He teaches skiing at a small resort at Les Deux Alpes during the winter and spring. Although the glacier there allows year-round skiing, he takes his entire summer off, then gives fall tours of the area until he goes back to skiing. From what I saw while visiting this past Christmas, his family is happier than it’s ever been. And it didn’t take a doctor to see how much healthier he is.”
“I’m happy for your brother. But I don’t ski.”
“Neither do I, but that wasn’t my point. An anxiety attack won’t kill you. But it can also be seen as a flashing yellow warning light. When you’re anxious, your body reacts in ways that puts extra strain on your heart. That tachycardia you experienced can, in serious cases, interfere with normal heart function and increase the risk of sudden cardiac arrest. Increased blood pressure can lead to coronary disease, weakening the heart muscle, eventually causing heart failure. And it is, of course, a leading cause of strokes.”
“Thanks for the PSA.” Gabe looked down at his wrist to where his Rolex Submariner should be and found it missing.
“It’s in the bag with your other things,” the doctor said before he could ask. “Along with your cell phone, which I suspect you could use a break from.”
“I need to get back to work.”
“And I need to do my job. Which is to prescribe regular exercise, a better diet and a proper amount of quality sleep.”
“I get all I need,” Gabe said. Okay, so maybe he worked a hundred-plus-hour week, and maybe he was so jazzed when he got back to his apartment, he’d need a couple or three drinks to chill enough to sleep, but that was the life he’d chosen.
“Given that you work at Harborstone, I seriously doubt that,” the doctor said, writing something else on Gabe’s chart. “And when was the last time you connected with your family and friends?”
“My family’s across the country in Washington State.” Although Gabe couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church before today, he felt a tinge of Catholic guilt that not only had he missed years of holidays, he’d also not shown up for his sister’s engagement party.
“Last I heard, planes flew west across the Hudson. When was the last time you hung out with friends outside work?”
“Earlier today.”
“But the guest of honor at that party wasn’t there. Because he happened to be dead.”
“You know what, Doc?”
“What?”
“You’ve got one helluva smart-ass bedside manner.”
“Thank you. It took several years to hone it. Your friend, and I assume he was a close one for you to be a pallbearer, died, according to what one of men at the scene told the EMT, at forty-six. Given that the life expectancy of a male with his birth year is sixty-seven-point-four years, he can been seen as evidence that while working on Wall Street may make you a very wealthy man, the lifestyle can kill you before you have time to enjoy it.”
“Carter Kensington’s life was excessive,” Gabe argued. “Mine isn’t.”
“Being a workaholic is excessive in its own way,” Kaplan said. The damn guy just wouldn’t let up.
“You do realize that arguing my lifestyle probably isn’t good for my blood pressure,” Gabe shot back.
“Yet you feel the need to defend it,” the doctor said mildly.
“To a guy who probably works the same hours.”
“My work’s not nine-to-five. But I’m going out tonight with my wife to watch our daughter’s ballet recital. She’s excited because her tutu has sequins and she gets to wear a sparkly tiara. Which she’s going to wear afterward, when we go out for pizza. Because that’s her favorite thing. Even if she does insist on pineapple on it. I blame that slight flaw in judgment on her mother.
“You’re obviously an intelligent man, Mr. Mannion. Perhaps you ought to consider using some of your brainpower to come up with a way to achieve a better life balance. Before I see one of your friends worrying about dropping your casket thirteen years from now.”
“Ouch. Mic drop.”
Kaplan’s lips quirked, giving Gabe the impression that the sadistic son of a bitch was actually enjoying this. “You’re free to leave,” he said. “But, seriously, you don’t have to turn ski instructor. Why don’t you try figuring out something that gives you pleasure, and make time for it? While you still have that option. Because I’d rather not see you back in my emergency room anytime soon.”
With that he was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Honeymoon Harbor
“OKAY,” CHELSEA PRESCOTT SAID. “We have the summer reading challenge, art lessons with Michael Mannion, the trip out to Blue House farm, so kids can actually see where their food comes from, a tour of Herons Landing B and B from Seth Harper and Brianna Mannion, who’ll point out all the construction and tell the story of the Whistler mural, which the reading adventurers will have already learned abou
t beforehand during the trip to the historical museum.”
Before the end of workday meeting, she’d written the plans she’d thought of so far on the library conference room wall whiteboard. “What else can we come up with?” she asked her staff, which consisted of one other librarian, Jennifer Miller, who’d moved here from Spokane, two paid assistants, four volunteers and the seventysomething Mrs. Henderson, who, despite having retired, still checked in at least once a week to make sure the library hadn’t fallen apart without her.
“This is beginning to sound more like a summer camp than a library,” Linda Mayburn, one of the volunteers, said.
“We’re in the process of opening minds,” Chelsea said patiently. She’d been hearing those objections from Linda since she’d first begun planning the library’s summer event in January. She’d continued to bite her tongue, because the truth was that funds were low and she couldn’t afford to offend anyone willing to work for free. “While books take readers on adventures to different places and times, we’re still talking about our very short Pacific Northwest summers. And although it’s hard to believe, there are those kids who don’t want to spend those sunny days inside the library.”
“Those, especially, are the ones we want to reach,” Dorothy Anderson, half owner of the Dancing Deer dress shop and volunteer, said.
“Because reading is fundamental,” Doris, her twin, and business partner, said.
“Exactly.” Chelsea was tempted to kiss them both. “Those who don’t think of a library as a place to find adventure are the ones we want to reach. Because once we get them inside the doors, we can hook them on reading.”
“What about the liability issues?” Linda pressed.
“That’s covered. Although Quinn Mannion is no longer a practicing attorney, he’s still licensed, so he wrote up a permission form for parents to sign. I also talked to the mayor, and he assured me that we’re covered under the county insurance.”
“People can still sue.”
“Any idiot can sue for any reason.” Mrs. Henderson jumped in with a huff of the impatience Chelsea herself was trying to hide. “That’s what insurance is for.”
Although the retired librarian had made her library a safe place for Chelsea during some very difficult childhood years, she’d also run a tight ship. No one had ever argued with her when she was behind the checkout desk. Apparently, Linda wasn’t prepared to start now. She merely crossed her arms and shook her head. But, Chelsea noted, she didn’t get up and march out in a huff.
“So,” she forged on, “any other ideas?”
“How about a tour of Mannion’s microbrewery?” another volunteer asked.
“Great. Let’s teach the kids to drink,” Linda muttered.
“It could be a special event for the older kids,” Susan Long, who taught chemistry at the high school, said. “The same way going out to Blue House farm can teach kids where their food comes from, learning about brewing can show them that by knowing chemistry, you can turn grains, hops, water and yeast into one of the world’s oldest beverages. It makes science more relevant to everyday life.”
“Also, the first evidence of beer production dates back to Egypt and Mesopotamia in the fifth millennium BC,” Jennifer, who’d received a bachelor’s degree in art history at WSU before earning her MLS degree, said. “So, there’s an opportunity to throw in some ancient history into the mix.”
“I like that idea.” With the exception of Linda, Chelsea loved her team. “I’ll ask Quinn if he’d be willing to do that.”
“He’s already giving tours to guests staying at his sister’s bed and breakfast,” Mrs. Henderson pointed out. “I’m sure he’ll be willing to do the same for us. I’ll volunteer to ask him. He owes me, given that I excused a great many of his library fines over the years. I always knew that boy would grow up to be a lawyer, the way he could come up with all those excuses on why he was returning his books late.”
Although Chelsea didn’t know Quinn Mannion all that well, she did have trouble envisioning the easygoing, friendly pub owner and microbrewer in his previous life as a high-priced corporate lawyer in Seattle.
“You’ve got the assignment, Mrs. Henderson. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. It gives me an excuse to drop into the pub for those to die for wings he serves.”
“There’s also the fact that he’s not hard to look at,” Doris said.
“The man definitely inherited those Mannion black Irish looks,” her sister agreed.
“Okay. Any more ideas?” Chelsea brought the meeting back to order when all the women’s eyes, even Linda’s, had gone a little dreamy.
Chelsea couldn’t deny that that Quinn was, indeed, a hottie. But they had work to do. While her library admittedly wasn’t the largest on the peninsula, Mrs. Henderson had left her some very big shoes to fill, and not only did she not intend to let the former librarian—and the town—down, she also wanted to make it the best small-town library in the state.
“You’re already talking about a lot of activities,” Linda pointed out. “And there aren’t that many of us.”
“I’ve got that covered,” Chelsea said. “Knowing that kids need to demonstrate a sense of responsibility and community service to college admission officers, I gave a talk about summer volunteerism at the high school last month, and we’ve more applications for volunteer interns than we can possibly use. Jennifer and I will be going through them and choosing three or four this week. They’ll be great at helping us herd kids.”
Linda folded her arms across her chest, but didn’t object to what Chelsea had personally thought was a brilliant idea.
“We’ve just about got this,” she said encouragingly. “Why don’t we all think about it a bit longer—”
“Put our thinking caps on,” Mrs. Henderson broke in with a decisive nod.
“Yes.” How Chelsea loved this woman who, along with giving her a safe harbor when she’d so needed it, had provided a focus that had saved her from aimlessly drifting through life. “That’s exactly what we should do. We’re all intelligent women, and with the program lasting six weeks, we certainly have more opportunities for engagement.” She closed her planner. “Let’s ponder the possibilities over the weekend, and meet back here at end of day Monday.”
Everyone but Linda seemed receptive to that idea. But again, she didn’t say anything. While she appreciated the lack of argument, Chelsea also worried that she might be about to lose a volunteer just when she needed all she could get.
“You’re doing a dandy job,” Mrs. Henderson, who stayed behind, said. “I was proud of getting funding for our county bookmobile to reach those who couldn’t come into town. But this idea will go down in the annals of Salish County as the same type of library milestone.”
“Thank you.” Her mentor’s words meant a lot. “If I mess things up, it could end up an entirely different type of milestone.”
“You won’t.” They walked out of the room, and down the sunshine-yellow hallway lined with library themed posters. “You have mettle, Chelsea Prescott.” They’d reached the double glass door and the first poster visitors saw. Welcome! it read. This is YOUR library! A Place to Discover. Read. Learn. Explore. Research. Have Fun. Relax. Connect. Succeed!
“That was always my mantra,” Mrs. Henderson said. “In the early days, I had it written on an old-fashioned blackboard.”
“I know. I remember it well.” Chelsea smiled. “Then you upgraded to brightly colored markers on a white board. I hope you don’t mind that I had Michael Mannion make the poster.”
“You have to keep up with the times. I appreciate you keeping my words.”
“I certainly couldn’t have thought of a way to improve them.” Hadn’t the library under this woman’s tenure been all those things to her?
“You also have them as a header on the website.”
“I loved the photo of the
library with the harbor in the back, but I thought putting up a mission statement in its place might draw more people in. I did keep the photo in the right margin where visitors can see it.”
“I wasn’t complaining, dear,” Mrs. Henderson assured her. She knitted her brow. “Perhaps you should add a basic computer class to the learning curriculum. I remember when we first were able to get an internet connection. No one, including me, knew how to use it to our best advantage. It was definitely a self-taught learning experience.”
“There are still people who don’t know,” Chelsea said. “I doubt a week goes by that either Jennifer or I help someone fill out a résumé and search for a job. And then, there’s the rush of college applications and some instruction on essay writing. Many of Honeymoon Harbor’s students are the first in their family to go to college.” She knew firsthand how intimidating that could be. “It can be overwhelming.”
“As it was before the computer. But that’s the type of thing I had in mind. Also, I’ve bought some items from local home craftspeople. If more of them had websites, they could reach more potential buyers, but most probably either don’t have the skills, or the money to set that up.”
“I had a student from the college update ours,” Chelsea said. “I’ll ask if she’d be willing to teach a couple sessions. One for the older kids and another for the adults.”
Mrs. Henderson nodded, her steel-gray head flowing down her back in wild waves. No short, “age-appropriate” hair for her. “That’s a very good idea.”
“It was yours.”
“I know.” Another flash of a smile took years from her face. “At my age, I don’t have time to bother with bad ones.”
That said, she left the library, walking with purpose down the steps. Although she remained hearty, Chelsea always held her breath, waiting for a fall. There was a ramp next to the steps, but the elderly librarian refused to use it.
Chelsea waited until Mrs. Henderson reached the sidewalk, gotten into her Prius and driven off before making one last check of the building. In a back reading alcove, she found the two girls, sitting on the chintz-covered love seat. As they’d been most afternoons for the past week.
