A Summer Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  “That is absurd. Reading about a place is not the same as going there.”

  “It’s a more convenient mode of travel. That’s why books are so useful.”

  “But mere words, even those of the most gifted writer, cannot do justice to the experience. The islands in the Hawaiian archipelago, for instance. I’ve read descriptions by the finest writers of our age, but I simply must go there and see for myself. I must feel the air on my skin, smell the scent of orchids and fruit, ride the surf as the natives do.”

  “And risk contracting leprosy or malaria, getting bitten by poisonous flies—”

  “There is always a risk in anything worth doing.”

  He had no idea why he was so entertained by this conversation. “I have never been so philosophically opposed to someone as I am to you.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’d venture to suggest that you oppose your son in a number of things.”

  He bristled, but could not deny it. “Lucas makes it a point to know my views on everything so that he can take the opposite stance.”

  “No wonder I find him so agreeable.” She beamed with an expression so bright that he momentarily forgot his animosity toward her. “I’ve enjoyed our talk immensely, Dr. Calhoun.”

  So have I. He astonished himself with the thought.

  “I expect you’ll be feeling quite a bit improved in the near future,” he declared, mystified by his attraction to her. She was a disaster in the making, and the sooner he sped her on her way, the better. “Then we’ll see about reporting the attack against you to the police.”

  He left her sputtering in protest. The moment he stepped out of the room, he breathed a sigh of relief. She would not need his attention until tomorrow at least. Surely the most difficult part of his day was over.

  Or so he thought, right up until the moment June Li came running, to hand him a telegram.

  Fourteen

  “It’s not that I don’t love my family,” Blue explained to Rory the next day as they departed a meeting with the senior staff of the Rescue League. “I do, but their timing couldn’t be worse. I’d nearly forgotten they were coming to town.”

  “All of them?” Rory asked. “Even that infernal sister of yours?”

  “Which infernal sister?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. He liked putting his friend on the spot.

  “Belinda, of course.” Rory gave a mock shudder. “The little one, Amanda, is as sweet as the day is long. But Belinda…” He gave another shudder. “It must have been hell growing up with her, sheer hell.”

  They walked amid shoppers, tourists and tradesmen crowding the boardwalks and sidewalks. The roadway roared with a constant stream of traffic—hansoms and drays, horse cars and swaying omnibuses, cable cars straining up the hills. Here in the bustle of the city, his childhood in Virginia seemed a distant dream, or something that had happened to someone else. He and his sister had spent their earliest years on a Tidewater plantation.

  “I know you’ll find this hard to believe,” he said, “but Belinda was like a fairy child. Her nature was as light and tender as a breeze in springtime.”

  “You’re right. I don’t believe you. A fairy child? That harridan?”

  Blue reminded himself that Rory knew her only as an ambitious, hardworking woman and heir apparent to the family ranch. Of all four Calhoun offspring, she alone had bound herself to the land called Cielito. It was an unexpected bond for a girl who had been raised a Southern belle.

  Time and fortune had changed her for the better, Blue thought. Rather than concerning herself with fashions and balls and attracting a rich husband, she worked side by side with their father, managing the business with consummate skill. Neither he nor his sister had ended up with the sort of life that was expected of them, Blue reflected. Many years ago, his widowed father had remarried, and he and Eliza had two more children. Perhaps Blue’s half siblings, Hank and Amanda, would find the sort of settled contentment that seemed to elude Blue and Belinda.

  “You should be grateful to Belinda. She is in charge of this year’s charity ball for the Rescue League.”

  “All right, I’m grateful, but that doesn’t mean I have to like her.” Rory lifted one eyebrow. “She’s the one who chose the theme of Arabian Nights, isn’t she? Do you suppose she has inappropriate fantasies about being abducted by a sheik?”

  “I don’t doubt it in the least. I assume your burnoose is on order from the costumer.”

  Rory squared his shoulders, strutting a little. “It is now.”

  Another concern shadowed Blue’s thoughts. “How the devil am I going to explain Miss Fish-Wooten?”

  “Just say she’s a lady outlaw who got shot in the back, and now you’re falling in love with her.”

  The suggestion made his stomach drop like a ball of lead. He broke out in a sweat and hoped Rory didn’t notice. “You’re insane.”

  “Ha. I’m right and you know it. I’ve never seen you behave this way over a woman.”

  “I’ve never had a woman order me around at gunpoint,” Blue snapped.

  “She’s had an interesting effect on you. When I think of all the ways women have tried to attract your attention over the years, I am amazed at their ingenuity. Yet all it took was a lethal threat, and you’re putty in her hands.”

  “And you’re imagining things.”

  “I would love to see how your family reacts to this paragon of virtue,” Rory said, unaffected by his temper.

  “Of course you would. Come to supper this evening and make a fool of yourself.” He knew Rory would be there with or without an invitation. For all his complaints about Belinda, he was oddly fascinated by her, and practically a member of the family anyway. Lacking a family of his own, Rory found the boisterous Calhoun clan irresistible.

  They parted ways in the business district, in front of the granite monolith of the Montgomery block, four storeys tall, where Rory kept his offices. Blue sent for his horse and rode up to Mercy Heights Hospital to check on Officer Brolin. He had done so each day since the shooting, even though Brolin was not his patient. He did not want this man to die. He didn’t want any man to die but there was more at stake than a life here. He needed for Brolin to live. He needed for Isabel Fish-Wooten not to be accused of murder.

  In the hospital foyer, he encountered Mrs. Alma Vickery. The wife of Fremont Vickery was one of the city’s most famous hostesses, and she took her role seriously. She dressed in high style, with every hair in place, her posture flawless as she glided across the foyer to greet him.

  “Dr. Calhoun,” she said, extending a slender hand.

  He touched her fingers—even through the glove they were ice-cold—and bowed. “Mrs. Vickery. I’m flattered you remember me.”

  “Don’t be. You are not the sort of man a woman easily forgets.”

  He had no idea what to make of her comment. She was older, and attractive in her way, with a pretty Southern drawl and soft, light hair. But they had never had more than a passing acquaintance at social events.

  A heavy musk of perfume surrounded her. She was tiny and elegant, her eyes slumbrous and shiny black. He studied her for a moment before catching himself, and surrendered her hand. But not before noticing the erratic cadence of her pulse. He remembered the worrisome gossip Clarice had shared about her.

  “I trust you are well,” he said, resisting the impulse to see if she was feverish.

  “Indeed I am. And looking forward to the Benevolent Aid Society ball. Surely the most worthy of events. I understand the entire Calhoun family is involved.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we are.”

  “How very admirable.” Her chin trembled as though she were genuinely moved. “It is wonderfully idealistic to suppose the poor wretches cast off by society can be saved.”

  “It’s quite possible, Mrs. Vickery. The Rescue League has been doing it for years.”

  “But I imagine some cannot be reformed regardless of your striving,” she said.

  “That doesn’t m
ean we shouldn’t make the effort.”

  A smile flitted across her lips. “Of course you’re right.” Her gaze slid around the perimeter of the foyer.

  “Are you looking for someone?” asked Blue.

  “Fremont and I have a supper engagement this evening, and he is running late as usual.” She sighed delicately. “Saving lives takes precedence over social affairs, doesn’t it, Dr. Calhoun?”

  He didn’t suppose she really needed a response. He was trying to choose a way to politely excuse himself when Dr. Vickery arrived, a footman in tow, holding a top hat and opera cloak at the ready while Vickery surrendered his laboratory coat and rubber-backed surgical apron.

  The moment he spied his wife, his manner swiftly changed. He focused on her with the intense absorption of a bridegroom waiting at the altar. Perfectly-barbered sideburns framed a genuinely adoring smile. The affection in his look was returned with true sincerity by Mrs. Vickery. The two of them had been married a good twenty years, Blue supposed with a pang of envy. Their obvious regard for one another hinted at a richness his own life lacked.

  “Hello, my dear,” Vickery said. “Please forgive me for being late.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. It is just as I was saying to Dr. Calhoun. There is no need to apologize for being a hero. The saving of lives takes precedence over all else.”

  With military bearing, Fremont Vickery turned to greet Blue. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did we have an appointment?”

  “No. I stopped in to see how Officer Brolin was doing.”

  “You’re taking quite an interest in my patient.”

  “The entire city is.” Since the incident, the press had gotten involved, avidly reporting every detail to a hungry reading public. Dramatic accounts of the officer’s bravery in the face of a phantom shooter plastered the pages of the Register, the Evening News, the Examiner and daily broadsheets.

  “It’s a tragic and fascinating case,” Blue said. “The imagination of the public is always captured by the mystery of a comatose patient. There is always the hope and possibility that he’ll awaken and solve the puzzle for us.”

  “I assume your interest is not so prurient,” Vickery said.

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s a grim business,” Vickery said with an offended air. “A man’s life hangs in the balance, yet the scandal sheets report the shooting as though it were a sporting event.”

  “Poor Fremont,” said Alma Vickery. “We must all pray for Officer Brolin to survive. In fact, we should all go to him right now.”

  “But my dear—”

  “Come along, Fremont, it’s a perfect idea.” She headed toward the ward. “I can’t think why I haven’t been to visit him yet. I should have done so days ago.”

  Vickery hurried after her and Blue fell in step. Vickery took his wife’s elbow. “You’ve been away since Wednesday,” he reminded her. “You’ve had no time to go visiting.”

  “Since before the shooting,” she said. “I had a ticket to Monterrey. I know that, Fremont. Don’t you think I know that? I’m not a child.” Her irritation melted into compassion when she reached the ward where Officer Brolin lay. At present, a woman who appeared to be his wife sat beside a priest on a bench by the bed.

  Vickery made brief introductions. Blue acknowledged them but his attention stayed with Brolin. Alma Vickery occupied herself with Mrs. Brolin, murmuring words of comfort. The wife was speechless with despondence and the priest’s lips moved constantly in prayer, his fingers worrying the beads of an onyx rosary.

  Brolin’s head was swathed in bandages, binding a thick patch to the right temporal region, presumably where the bullet had entered. The gauze bore rusty stains but, surprisingly, was also damp from the seepage of fluids.

  “When did you perform the debridement surgery, Doctor?” asked Blue.

  Vickery noted the man’s pulse. “I didn’t operate.”

  “Who did?”

  “No one. The bullet was not embedded.” Like most physicians, Vickery held surgeons in low esteem, and apparently avoided surgical procedures.

  Blue couldn’t help himself. Vickery surpassed him in eminence and experience, but that didn’t make him infallible. “Clearing the wound to prevent infection is always indicated in the case of a gunshot wound, is it not?”

  Vickery squared his shoulders, the opera cloak swinging with the motion. “Sir, are you suggesting my patient is not receiving the very best of my care and attention?”

  “I’m suggesting a standard surgical procedure—”

  “Which, if you must know, is scheduled for the morning, Doctor.”

  Blue bit back the obvious question, Why would treatment be delayed? The tension drew taut between them and did not slacken until Alma turned from her conversation with Mrs. Brolin and the priest.

  “The monster who did this must be found and punished,” Alma declared. Spots of color stood out on her cheeks. Her eyes gleamed and her hands fluttered in agitation.

  “My dear, you mustn’t work yourself into a state.” Vickery steered his wife to the door.

  “I’m not in any state, Fremont. Why would you suggest such a thing?”

  “We must be going,” he said, nodding respectfully to Mrs. Brolin. “Until morning then, madam.”

  They took their leave, heading back through the ward once again. Blue accompanied them, saying no more about the Brolin case. Not at the moment, anyway.

  The Vickerys departed like royalty on parade in a polished white coach-and-four, Alma’s ostrich feather bobbing in the breeze. Blue lingered at the hospital, turning over the problem of Officer Brolin in his mind.

  Fremont Vickery was a famous clinician with an enormous success rate. Yet he’d made no progress with Brolin. True, a brain injury was the most baffling a physician could encounter, but to delay the most rudimentary of measures was a questionable decision. In a case involving an officer of the law, a case so closely scrutinized by the local press, Vickery would not willfully endanger a patient.

  Blue reminded himself that physicians often disagreed on courses of treatment. What seemed obvious to one man might be considered outrageous to another.

  As he returned to the ward, he encountered a young woman he thought he recognized. She wasn’t a nurse. A laboratory assistant, perhaps. In a crisp white smock and sturdy brogans, her brown hair scraped back into a bun and a stack of case records clutched to her chest, she resembled an earnest schoolgirl.

  “Dr. Calhoun?” she said, “I’m Leah Mundy.”

  “Miss Mundy.” He nodded in her direction.

  She tilted her head to one side. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  He slowed his pace down the corridor. “I’m afraid not, Miss Mundy.”

  “Sir, I’m a medical student from Philadelphia, studying here on a fellowship.”

  “Welcome to San Francisco,” he said, trying to figure out where he’d seen her before. In a lecture, perhaps? The medical colleges of the city were famous for training women as well as men, a radical concept that had brought a good deal of fame and even some notoriety to the institution.

  “Dr. Vickery advised me to visit the Mission Rescue League, and I did so last week,” she added.

  He nodded distractedly. Perhaps he had seen her there. But he was more intrigued by the idea that Vickery was sending medical students to the clinic to observe.

  “The work you are doing there is so commendable,” she added, apparently unnerved by his silence.

  Hoping to put her at ease, he let a very slight smile unfurl on his lips. “What can I do for you, Miss Mundy?”

  “Sir, I’m interested in your public health project. Dr. Vickery presented the opportunity of working there to his advanced students.”

  Blue felt guilty for thinking ill of Vickery earlier. The man had clearly made good on his promise. “I’m pleased by your interest, Miss Mundy.”

  She released the sigh she’d obviously been holding. Her look of relief nearly made him smile. “Dr. Calhou
n,” she said, “if possible, I would like to offer my services.” She took a nervous breath. “I don’t have my physician’s credentials yet, but I could assist you, or…” Her voice trailed off and she looked up at him as though he were a dog that might snap at her.

  “You want to work at the Rescue League.”

  “I’d ask for no compensation. Dr. Vickery made it clear that it’s supported solely by private funds and by a charity administered by the Benevolent Aid Society.”

  “How long have you been in the city, Miss Mundy?”

  “Less than three months,” she said.

  She seemed earnest enough, but Blue had his doubts. Some of the city’s training institutions made for dubious medical practitioners. A student could graduate from some of the local proprietary schools after only one semester of lectures. Too many “doctors” began their careers without any practical experience, but with a diploma and license to practice.

  “I assume Dr. Vickery will provide a recommendation,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, sir. He’s a marvelous teacher. Some students complain that he’s too exacting. It’s common to spend a full day after a dissection writing up a report.”

  “And is he too exacting?” asked Blue, intrigued.

  “I don’t believe so, sir, but—” She bit her lip.

  “But what?” Blue asked.

  She darted a worried glance down the hall and lowered her voice. “He has no tolerance for a dissenting point of view. The truth is, sir, I’ve learned not to challenge him.”

  He liked her candor and trusted the keen intelligence that shone from her. “We’d be honored to have you, Miss Mundy.”

  She regarded him with shining eyes.

  He frowned slightly. “Is something the matter, Miss Mundy?”

  “Why, you’re not nearly as—” She broke off, clasping the charts closer to her chest. “I beg your pardon, Doctor. What I meant to say is that you are very accommodating.”

  “And you thought I would not be?”

  “To be honest, sir, and I know of no other way to be, yes. I expected you to be brusque and resistant.”