Dr. Finch (Healing Hands Book 4): A Steamy Workplace Romance

by Vanessa James

  The loud laughter from outside my office door drew my attention. I was certain that was Francine’s laugh. I heard Karen speak, drawing more laughter from Francine. The next moment, I heard the door of Francine’s office swing open and the footsteps moved in that direction. No doubt Francine was enjoying her new friendship with Nurse Karen, so much that she had shelved our after-work chats. I rubbed my palms together as I stared at the door, almost expecting Francine to walk in and sit across from me. The thought of Francine coming here soon left my mind. It’s good that she’s bonding with other staff, I thought as I got to my feet and walked to my favorite spot in the office, the window showing that beautiful view of the snow-capped mountains.

  I stared at the white peaks of the mountains and wondered if people went on hikes to those mountains. It would be great to explore those lovely peaks if people went there. In my mind, I saw Francine at the peak of the mountain, waving at me from the distance and smiling. I blinked and peered again, but she was no longer there. A chuckle escaped my lips as I thought about the fact that I had just hallucinated about Francine.

  Realizing that she was busy with whatever she was discussing with Karen and not going to come to talk to me, I decided that I would leave right away. I wouldn’t return to my cottage. No, that would leave me facing a boring evening. I would go to one of the art galleries that lined Corbin Street and spend some quality time there. Some of the galleries had bars attached where you could sit and have a drink as you watched some local poets reading their latest masterpiece or spoken word artists performing.

  I breezed out of my office and resisted the urge to look behind me and try to get a sight of Francine through her partially open door. I thought I heard another round of laughter, but it could be my imagination at work. Was it natural that Francine was laughing so often? I walked towards the waiting area and announced my departure to the nurses who were working there. I walked out of the hospital, making straight for my car that was parked in a corner of the parking lot.

  “Doc!” Someone called from across the road. I peered in that direction and I saw that it was one of the patients we had recently discharged. He was waving cheerfully at me and I waved back, allowing my face to morph into a smile although I wasn’t sure if he could see my face clearly with his aging eyes. This was the thrill that came with being a doctor, the joy of helping people fight mortality and live well.

  I got into my car and placed my head against the head rest for a while. Francine’s laughing voice sounded in my head again and again until it became the mocking laughter of the Taliban rifleman who had gunned down Private Jones and Masters, two of the lively officers in my troop back in Kandahar.

  Get a grip!

  I did not understand why Francine was having this kind of effect on me. I shifted in the driver’s seat as my hand went to the ignition. I noticed that my palms were moist and tiny beads of perspiration had broken out on my forehead. For a moment, I didn’t start the engine as I tried to calm my frayed nerves. Whenever I had flashes about Afghanistan, I was always thrown off balance. It hadn’t happened in a long time and I was surprised that it was coming back now. Was it because Francine hadn’t come around for our usual chat?

  I shook my head as I finally turned the key and listened to the engine spurting to life. I drove off the premises, and couldn’t resist a glance in the direction of Francine’s window. I saw nothing, of course.

  “What do you want with her anyway? She’s just a colleague, a friend,” I muttered as I took a turn and drove onto the highway.

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted anything more with Francine. Hell, I didn’t even know if she saw me as a friend the way I saw her. She probably thought our chats were just that and nothing important. She needed someone to listen to her ramblings and, sometimes, she wanted to listen to someone speak as well. I remembered that it was through her that I found out about the opening at this hospital, and how she had done her best to get me on board. It was silly to think she no longer considered me a friend just because she wanted to spend time with someone else.

  “The silliest thing is over-analyzing the whole issue,” I muttered as I drove past a field where a group of men were bowling.

  I maintained my grip on the wheel and kept driving. I wasn’t going to watch their bowling contest. Corbin Street is where I ought to be, and I would be there in a few minutes.

  The lights were bright in the gallery, making the art pieces appear more lustrous. I walked down the hall, taking in the paintings that depicted different concepts. I lingered at a shelf that held the hand-drawn painting of a man and woman standing facing each other while a giant heart connected the two. The artist, standing by the shelf, noticed my interest and smiled appreciatively.

  “Soul mates, right?” I enquired.

  “Yes, soul mates, twin flames, divine halves, whatever you choose to call it,” the artist said as he adjusted his black cap.

  “You believe in all of that?” I asked, drawing closer and keeping my gaze on the magnificent sketch. The couple were in black and white while the giant heart that connected them was a bright red.

  “Do I? I can’t say anymore,” the artist said. His lips twisted upwards slightly in a smile and confirmed something I had seen earlier. He had a gold tooth in his mouth. “I met a woman at a point and I thought she was the only one for me. It was love at first sight and we could not be separated from that day on. I married her with the belief that I could not live without her. She was the whole world to me.”

  He paused as if worried about revealing too much to a stranger, but secrets had a way of connecting people, of making total strangers to bond. Without any urging from me, he continued to speak.

  “I soon learned that there was no such thing as not being able to live without someone. I mean, were you not living before you met her? Yes, I had to leave my so-called soul mate when I learned she was cheating on me with my nephew.”

  “Oooh, that’s terrible,” I muttered, thinking of the pain of being betrayed by a relative and by someone you loved. “I’ve experienced something similar.”

  The artist nodded slowly as if that act somehow stopped him from feeling his sadness. “Then I met my wife. That love was a slow burn. We started as friends and got closer over the months. She was everything to me.”

  “Was?” I mumbled. “Did she leave you too?”

  The artist nodded, and this time, I could see the pain on his face, although he still had the half-smile that showed his single gold tooth. “She left, not by choice though. Cancer took her away from me.”

  I was mortified at hearing that. How could a man suffer such losses and still be sane?

  “I’m really sorry about that,” I said, and it was one of those occasions when telling someone you were sorry about their loss felt very inadequate.

  “It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “After her death, I left my job and took to painting. I wish she were here to see these things, but I would never have done any of these if she were alive.”

  “Such a touching story.”

  “Yes, doc. It is,” he replied, tracing a finger down the length of the female figure in the painting.

  “You know me?”

  “Of course, I have been to the hospital twice since you arrived here.”

  I could not remember ever seeing him there, but it was possible that he had been there and I never noticed, especially if it was Francine or the locum doctor who had attended to him. Dozens of people came to the hospital every day. There was no way I could have committed his face to memory if I hadn’t met him directly.

  I spent some more time chatting to the artist and in the end I bought one of his other paintings because he refused to be parted with the one I had first seen. The one I bought showed a man stretching to pluck heart-shaped fruit from a tree. There were words of poetry scribbled at the bottom corner of the painting. I saluted the artist and left his stand. The urge to explore other stands had left me. Maybe I would check them out on my next visit to this gallery.
There were so many gallery options to choose from around here. It might be weeks or months before I came back to this particular place. I began to walk towards the bar in the gallery to pass the rest of my evening.

  I got there just in time for the performance from a short, stout man by the name of Frank Adams, who was wowing the small crowd with his poetry. I glanced around the stage and saw a group of musicians setting up for a performance. I walked over to the barman and requested whiskey on the rocks. I sat near the bar and sipped my drink while watching the man on the stage speak about love, life and death. The more I listened to Adams and thought about the words of the artist, I pondered my own love life, how I had slammed the door of my heart closed to love after that unfortunate event with Shirley. Maybe I should consider moving on. It had been so many years. Why was I finding it difficult to give any woman my heart?

  The words of Poet Adams turned into an indistinct blur as I sipped my drink more. I wasn’t drunk but my mind had drifted off to other things. I began to see Francine in one of the seats around the bar. I blinked twice and saw that she was still there. Was this another hallucination or was she really there?

  The loud cheering and applause from the audience snapped me out of my daydream. I could see Adams walking off the stage, giving way for the band to set up the stage. When I stared in the direction where I had seen Francine just moments ago, I wasn’t surprised to see a vacant seat. I pushed the glass away and got to my feet. I didn’t feel like staying in the gallery anymore. I had been touched by the sonorous voice of the poet and the magical painting of the artist. My legs were steady as I walked towards the exit of the gallery. I wanted nothing more than to act on the wisdom of the words I had heard that evening, to allow my frozen heart to thaw after so many years.

  I got outside the gallery and saw that the sky was getting dark already. I had spent more than enough time around here. I looked around the parking lot, trying to remember where I left my car and found it wedged between two trucks. I jogged over and slipped in. I felt the urge to chat to Francine and ask her if she was okay, to see if there was something wrong that had stopped her talking to me the way we used to. I had almost whipped my phone out of my pocket to send the message when I decided it would be better if I got home first so I could call her properly. That way we would be able to talk at length. With that idea in mind, I drew my hand out of my pocket and reached out to turn the ignition. The car roared to life and I drove out of the parking lot. I had just gotten to the main road when I saw Francine’s car grinding to a halt just across the road. In spite of the growing darkness, I had absolutely no trouble recognizing her car. The vehicle had stopped in front of a drug store. I watched as Karen popped out of the passenger side while Francine got out of the driver’s side.

  I stifled a chuckle as I saw them walking together towards the store, which was lit by a bright neon sign. The cause of this sudden friendship between them was beyond me. However, that would not prevent me from pursuing my friendship with Francine. I wouldn’t let it.

  Chapter 4: Dr. Walters

  The woman who welcomed me to Mr. Jones’ house had a worried smile on her face. It was the kind of look you had when you were torn between hope and despair. I understood how it felt to be in such a situation.

  “I’m glad you are here, doc,” Mrs. Jones said. She was understandably scared about her husband’s health. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, Mrs. Jones,” I said as I followed her deeper into the living room. The old battered torch that she held illuminated our path into the house.

  We soon reached the room where Mr. Jones lay on a mattress, scarily still and staring straight at the ceiling. There was a desolate look on his face. A pretty blond girl of about eight sat on a small chair close to Jones, her face tear-stained.

  “Erica, go to the other room,” Mrs. Jones instructed in a firm voice.

  Erica let out a whimper as she walked out of the room.

  “She never wants to be separated from her granddad,” Mrs. Jones said as if I had demanded an explanation for the kid’s crying.

  “I understand that,” I said as I moved past the woman and stood beside her husband’s mattress. He had been admitted to the hospital after an accident involving one of the trees he had felled in the nearby forest. We had discharged him two days ago but a distress call from his wife that his condition was getting worse had prompted this visit.

  With the help of his wife, I moved Jones a little without causing pain to his back and I began to examine him. It turned out that his wound was infected and he needed to begin a course of antibiotics as quickly as possible before the wound festered anymore. I began to scribble on my prescription pad the details of the specific antibiotics he needed to treat the infection.

  The visit lasted no more than half an hour. Mrs. Jones thanked me profusely as I walked out of the dingy room.

  “You are very welcome,” I said as she led the way towards the front door of the house.

  When we reached the living room I saw the kid peeping at us from behind the curtain of the other room. I waved to her and she shyly waved back before I headed out of the house. I heaved a sigh as soon as I got outside. I had anticipated a crisis on my way here and had driven like a hero trying to get away from the bad guys in an action movie. Okay maybe not that fast, but I had come here at a really crazy speed. It was good to know that Jones was fine, and he would be a lot better when his wife got the drugs I had prescribed.

  The night wind was chilling as it whipped against my exposed arms and legs. I rushed towards my car, seeking the protection and warmth that the interior of the car was sure to provide. The cold wind lashed against my face, making me bite my lips as I dashed forwards. In the corner of my eyes, I thought I saw a shadow flick into sight and quickly disappear at a speed that was too quick to be human.

  I let out a mocking chuckle at my cowardice. This was Mortown, a town reputed for its welcoming citizens and safe streets. Sheriffs here were known for doing their all to ensure that people could walk around Mortown without fear. The only problem here was that I was the only one walking down this road. This was one of the parts of Mortown that was far from the hub of activities in the center of the town. I soon reached my car and let out a deep breath as I jumped in the driver’s seat. Just before I got in, the sweeping wind hit me again, and this time I could feel my nipples growing taut under my bra as the cold hit me. I quickly started the engine and drove away.

  Driving through Mortown at night was something I loved doing. As soon as you got away from the outskirts, you would see lights everywhere, and tourists trying to get their fill of the town’s magic before going back home. I began to nod to myself as I turned on the music and my car filled with the crooning of a blues musician I wasn’t familiar with. I enjoyed listening to music, but I rarely remembered the names of the singers of the tracks on the playlists saved on the music player in my car.

  I drove closer to the center of the town and was rewarded with the beautiful nightlife of Mortown. This was not some sleepy town whose inhabitants cleared the streets before nine. Here people walked the streets at all hours, just like in the city. The only difference was how small this place was.

  I drove past a row of shops that were still open. There were people in front so I couldn’t see what was being sold there. I drove on until my house came into sight. Proximity to the hospital had been the main factor when I chose this place after I turned down the offer to live in the small quarters attached to the hospital. Gilbert had refused that option too and had chosen a place near the hospital, just like me.

  Thinking about Gilbert gave me a thrill as I nosed the car towards my house. I had come in from an outing with Karen earlier this evening to see that he had called me once. Just once. I had debated in my head whether to call him back or not and had decided not to. He would call me again if he needed to say something. I knew it couldn’t be something related to work because in that case he would have texted me with the distress code that we used for s
uch occasions. He had sent me a text too. It was a simple Hello Francine. I had viewed it and had chosen not to reply yet. Maybe I would do that when I got home now, or I just might leave it. I was trying to show Gilbert that we couldn’t be such close friends anymore. I was scared of the affection I was developing for him when I knew that he had an ice boulder for heart

  Was I taking things to the extreme? Well, I couldn’t say yes or no to that. I was merely trying to protect my heart from potential heartbreak.

  And how effective has that been?

  I heaved a sigh. Gilbert still held a prominent place in my heart if the number of thoughts about him that dropped in my mind every day were anything to go by. Here I was on a dark, cold night, all of my thoughts centered on the same man I was trying hard to forget all about. I parked my car and cut the engine. I mulled on what to do next. Should I grab the duvet, bring it into the living room and tuck myself under it while watching a romantic show on TV? Or should I just go inside and hit the sack? I had wolfed down some dinner just before I left for Mr. Jones’ house and I couldn’t be bothered to cook anything now.

  I got out of the car and dashed straight to the front door, moving fast to escape the biting effect of the wind. The door swung open after I unlocked it and I stepped into the house. My hand reflexively reached for the switch and I flipped it on, bathing the room in its bright light. I decided to sit on the couch before I retired for the day, until the early hours of tomorrow or until I had a call from the hospital. As I settled on the couch, I drew my phone from my pocket and swiftly unlocked the screen. I saw that the last screen I had opened was the call log showing that Gilbert had called me, and that there was the option to call back. I hit the cancel button, tossed the phone aside. I wasn’t going to call him back yet. If he wanted to talk, then he’d better call me again. Then I’d decide if I would answer or not.