Читать книгу Child of Her Dreams - Joan Kilby - Страница 9

BEN GLANCED AROUND the Hainesville Medical Clinic with satisfaction. With two examining rooms, a small lab, office, reception area and waiting room, the clinic was positively luxurious compared with what he’d been used to in Guatemala.

The only glitch was that he hadn’t been in his new job a week before the nurse-receptionist who had worked for Dr. Cameron had been called to the sickbed of her elderly mother in Florida. Ben contacted an employment agency and was promised a temporary replacement in a couple of days.

Meantime, he took the loss in his stride; he’d coped with far more calamitous events in Guatemala. However, his patients were less sanguine than he about mixed-up appointments and general administrative confusion. Nor were they content to sit and wait for hours on a first-come, first-serve basis like his stoical villagers.

“You can’t run this clinic the way you ran that place in Central America,” a pinched-faced woman with tight gray curls told him after he’d inadvertently double booked her with the mayor. The mayor, Mr. Gribble, had won on the basis of having to attend an important meeting with the bank manager. Strangely enough, when Ben glanced out the window afterward, he’d seen Mr. Gribble heading for the river, with a fishing rod propped in the back of his Cadillac.

“Why not, Mrs. Vogler?” He began to scan the long medical history in her file to bring himself up to speed on her background.

“It’s Miss Vogler. We’re not a bunch of Mayan Indians, you know.”

More’s the pity.

“Dr. Cameron never did things this way. And where’s your white coat?” Greta Vogler added with an accusing glance at his Guatemalan shirtsleeves and clean khaki pants. “If it wasn’t for that stethoscope around your neck, no one would know you were a doctor.”

“Unless they happened to notice the diplomas hanging on the wall,” Ben said pleasantly, still reading. He came to an entry and paused. “It says here you had a hysterectomy in nineteen-seventy-six.” He gazed at her, mentally calculating. She would have been in her midtwenties at the time. “Could this date be a mistake?”

“There’s no mistake,” she said frostily, looking away. “But what that has to do with the migraines I came to see you about, I don’t know.”

“My apologies,” he murmured, and decided to skip the rest of the history. “Tell me about the headaches,” he said, and went on to deal with that.

That was yesterday. Today, he’d hit upon the idea of stacking patients’ files in the order in which they had phoned in for an appointment. When he got a call, he located the appropriate file from the filing cabinet and placed it at the bottom of the growing stack. He gave people a rough estimate of when they would see him, knowing no one ever expected to get in to see the doctor exactly on time. Simple yet effective.

Midmorning, Ben strode to the reception desk and leaned across it to pick off the top file so he could call in his next patient. But his eyes were on his watch instead of what he was doing, and he misjudged the distance. The entire stack of manila folders went slithering to the floor while the waiting patients watched in dismay.

Ben muttered a mild Mayan imprecation and crouched to pick up the files. A moment later a young woman with chin-length auburn hair left her seat to help him.

“You need an assistant,” she said, stacking manila folders randomly in the crook of her arm.

“I know I do. I registered with an employment agency, but so far they haven’t found anyone suitable.”

“Then maybe you should look for someone unsuitable.”

The smile in her voice made him glance up, into deep blue eyes that tilted, almond shaped, at the corners. Too slender for his taste, she was nevertheless undeniably attractive.

She was also vaguely familiar. “Have we met?”

She held his gaze with a bemused expression. “I would have remembered if I’d met you.”

“I never forget a face,” he persisted. “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere.”

She shrugged, glanced at the files in her arm and rearranged them. Then she placed her files atop his. Ben rose and held his hand out to help her to her feet. Her height surprised him. She had to be five-ten in her stockings, and the heels she wore put them on eye level.

He looked around the room, reading the name off the top file. “Geena Hanson?”

“That would be me,” said the blue-eyed woman, smiling, and she sauntered gracefully ahead of him to the examining room.

“Used to getting our own way, are we?” he said as he shut the door. Her clothes, her perfume, her very demeanor, shrieked wealth and sophistication. For some reason he thought of Penny, his British nurse, caring for peasants in jeans and T-shirt.

Geena Hanson took a chair and crossed one very long leg over the other. “I was next.”

“I see.” He opened her file and began to read the contents. “So, what seems to be the trouble?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned.”

Ben ignored her blasé answer and perused her recent medical history. His frown deepened as he read about her collapse in Italy and the two minutes during which her heart had stopped. A memory of newspaper headlines clicked in his brain. “You’re that supermodel. What are you doing in Hainesville?”

“This is my hometown. I’m recuperating. Is that a Texas accent?” she inquired.

“I’m from a small town outside Austin.” Ben went on reading, shaking his head at the recorded cocktail of pills she’d been taking and at her weight. His first impression was confirmed; she was unhealthily thin. And in denial about her problems.

Hands steepled over her file, he eyed her appraisingly. “If there’s nothing wrong, why are you here?”

She inspected her perfectly manicured nails. “My sisters and my grandmother insisted I get a follow-up examination.”

“Are you still taking these tablets?”

“No. I quit smoking, too.”

“Sleeping okay?”

“Could be better. But without five a.m. starts and late nights I’m getting by.”

“Any significant events following your collapse?” he asked, jotting notes with his fountain pen.

She didn’t answer right away, and he glanced up to see an odd light in her eyes. She leaned forward, clutching her Gucci handbag. “What exactly do you mean?”

Instinct told him something important was in the air, but he had no idea what. “Palpitations, dizziness, chest pain…”

“Oh.” She leaned back, seemingly disappointed. “I get a little dizzy sometimes first thing in the morning.”

Ben waited, giving her a chance to elaborate. When she didn’t add anything, he asked, “The dizziness—do you get it before breakfast or after?”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

All the advantages of money and position and not a lick of sense. He sent her a stern cold look. “It’s time you started. You’re significantly underweight.” He rose and came around his desk. “Hop onto the examining table.”

He checked her blood pressure, pulse and reflexes. He peered into her ears, shone a light in her eyes and felt the glands below her jaw. As his examination progressed he became increasingly aware of her as a woman, something that was not supposed to happen. But his senses could no more exclude the elusive scent of expensive perfume and the porcelain texture of her skin than they could miss the beat of her pulse beneath his fingertips.

Perspiration dampened his armpits as he slipped his stethoscope beneath the scoop neck of her silk dress. What should have been routine had become mildly erotic. She went very still, as if she was aware of him, too.

“Your, uh, heart rate’s a little fast.” This was crazy; she was not his kind of woman.

“White-coat syndrome?” she suggested with a whimsical lift of her eyebrows. She’d brushed them upward, and their lushness emphasized the deep lapis blue of her eyes and the delicate bridge of her long straight nose.

“I’m ordering some follow-up blood work,” he said briskly, retreating to his desk to uncap his fountain pen and fill out the correct form. “I understand the hospital down the road in Simcoe handles that. While you’re there, you should make an appointment with the nutritionist.”

“Okay.”

He glanced up sharply. Her agreement was too casual, too ready to be true. He bet she had no intention of following a nutritionist’s regime, even supposing she kept the appointment. “I’m serious, Ms. Hanson,” he said, writing her referral. “Your job isn’t conducive to a healthy lifestyle, as amply shown by your collapse. From what I’ve heard, models play hard—”

“And work hard,” she protested.

He tried to keep the skepticism out of his expression. “The point is, you need to take care of yourself.”

“Doctor…” She hesitated before going on. “Have you ever had a patient who’s died and come back? Someone who had a near-death experience?”

“No, I haven’t.” He tore the referral note from the pad, folded it and put it in an envelope. “But I know that near-death experiences are hallucinations brought on by a lack of oxygen to the brain when the heart stops pumping blood.”

“You know that, do you?” she said, her face troubled.

“It’s the accepted medical explanation. Why? Do you think you had a near-death experience?”

“Yes, and it was no hallucination,” she said earnestly. “When I was in the hospital in Milan someone brought in an English newspaper. In it was an article about a Dutch study that monitored the vital signs of patients who reported near-death experiences. One man even described the doctors removing his dentures before putting a tube down his throat to revive him. All this while he had no pulse and no detectable brain activity. What do you think of that?”

“Unconvincing. I read the original article written up in the British medical journal Lancet. There’re plenty of other studies that prove the experiences are generated by the brain as it faces the trauma of death. In my opinion the Dutch study doesn’t prove there’s life after death.”

“But I met my m—” She broke off abruptly and, to Ben’s relief, waved away the topic of conversation. “Never mind.” Then she noticed the framed photo on his desk of him and Eddie standing on the stone steps of a ruined Mayan temple. “That must be your brother. He’s a doctor, too, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” He handed her the referral envelope. “How did you know?”

Geena Hanson grinned, and the sophisticated model turned into a mischievous girl. “This is a small town. By the end of the week I’ll know your brand of toothpaste.”

Her grin charmed him even more than her beauty, but he was careful not to let it show. “Be sure to see the nutritionist. And I’d like to see you again in a couple months for a follow-up examination.”

She lingered in the doorway, her gaze roving over him. “What brings you to Hainesville, Doctor?”

He found himself standing closer to her than necessary, drinking in the blue of her eyes while her perfume continued to befuddle his senses. Her smile invited flirtation, and he lost the struggle to maintain a strictly professional manner. “When you find out,” he drawled, “let me know.”

She laughed, a spontaneous guffaw at odds with her elegance. “I’ll do that,” she said, and glided away.

“Next,” Ben called. But the waiting room had filled while he’d been seeing Geena, and the patients didn’t know any better than he did whose turn it was. The batch of mixed-up files was no help. A mother with a crying child, an elderly man, a teenage boy in a cast and a middle-aged woman stared blankly at him. Then they all began talking at once, claiming priority.

Geena paused at the exit, one hand on the door-knob, and studied the situation. Ben Matthews, competent doctor though he was, was clearly out of his depth. Her first instinct was to go to his assistance. But, she argued with herself, she knew nothing about being a receptionist in a medical clinic. The old Geena would have walked; the new Geena saw a person in need. The woman in her mentally hugged herself. For a while longer she would enjoy the company of this delicious man with the intelligent eyes and the air of adventure still clinging to his woven shirt.

She strode to the reception desk and picked up the stack of patient files before scanning the room. She’d never done this sort of work before, but how hard could it be? She knew most of the folks here. Add a little common sense and a lot of compassion…

The little girl crying and twisting in her mother’s lap while she clutched at her ear was clearly in pain.

“Laura,” Geena called, recognizing the mom as one of Erin’s high school friends. “You go next.”

“Thanks. She’s got an ear infection.” With obvious relief, Laura carried her sick daughter past Ben into the examining room.

Geena felt a hand on her arm, and Ben pulled her to one side. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Calmly disregarding his annoyed tone, she said, “I expect your patients could use some help organizing themselves. Not everyone is as enterprising as I am.”

“Indeed.” Beneath his mustache, his compressed lips curved a little. Then he glanced at the waiting room, where his patients had settled back to their magazines with resigned acceptance. Eyebrows raised, Ben shrugged. “Okay.”

Geena seated herself at the reception desk and began to arrange the files in the order in which she thought best. When Laura and her little girl were through, she helped Mr. Marshall to his feet, then handed the elderly gentleman his cane.

Ben paused beside the reception desk to pick up Mr. Marshall’s file. “I take it you’re staying awhile?”

“I don’t know,” she said, pretending to consider the matter. “I’ve got a lot to do today.” Touch up her nail polish, read the latest issue of Vogue, yawn a couple of dozen times from boredom. She’d barely been home a week and already she was going crazy. “But since you asked so nicely…all right.”

She leaned across the desk and added in an undertone, “Mr. Marshall has gout in his big toe, has had for years. But he’s sensitive about his feet. Be nice.”

One side of his mouth curled up. “I’m always nice.”

Geena was sure he was, in spite of his lack of understanding about near-death experiences. Certainly, he wasn’t like other men she knew, European playboys and New York stockbrokers, men with no one’s interests at heart but their own. Despite his obvious disapproval of her, Ben Matthews struck her as a very caring man. And an attractive one. While he’d been reading her file, she’d studied him. She liked his tall, solid body and his wry smile. She liked his long tapered fingers that held a fountain pen instead of an ordinary ballpoint. She liked the slight wave in his dark hair and the faint color that had appeared in his cheeks when he’d listened to her heart. But it was his Texas drawl that made her insides weak.

Ben escorted Mr. Marshall to the examining room, and Geena tackled the accumulated fliers from medical supply and pharmaceutical companies cluttering the desk, finding unexpected satisfaction in putting the office in order. The outside door opened, and she turned to see who had come in.

“Geena Hanson, is that you?” the woman shrieked.

Geena let out a yell. “Linda Thirsk! I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you in years.” She hurried around the desk to hug her high school friend.

Laughing, the two women stepped apart to look at each other. “You’re so skinny I hate you,” Linda said. Linda had become comfortably plump over the years, but somehow the extra pounds suited her, and her buttercup yellow dress was a flattering cut.

“You look great,” Geena declared. “So, did you ever make it to Greenwich Village to write satirical novels?”

Linda laughed. “I got as far as Spokane before my car broke down. Toby O’Conner heard about it from my mom and drove his tow truck all the way out to get me. We’ve been together ever since. Three kids, all under eight.”

“Lucky you. What about your writing?”

Linda gave her an odd, sly smile. “Oh, I do the church newsletter and other bits and pieces. Hey, we’re having our tenth high school reunion in October. You’ve got to come.”

Geena’s smile faded, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I…I don’t know if I can. Don’t you remember? I left high school after grade eleven to take a modeling contract. How can I go to the reunion when I never graduated?”

“No one will care about that,” Linda insisted. “You’ve got to come.”

Easy for Linda to say. She’d been top of their class, and despite their friendship, Geena had always felt slightly intimidated by her brainpower, even if Linda hadn’t made it to New York. “I’ll have to let you know.”

Geena went to the desk. “Did you have an appointment?”

“For two o’clock. Are you working here?”

“Just for today. The receptionist is away, and Dr. Matthews hasn’t got a new one yet.” Geena glanced from right to left, then whispered, “I’m having so much fun playing receptionist—you have no idea. But things are a little disorganized. You might have to wait a few minutes.”

“That’s okay.” Linda lifted a laptop computer. “I’ll just take a seat and get caught up on my, uh, newsletter.”

“Talk to you later.”

The examining room door opened and out came a man in his late forties with unnaturally black hair and a pale-blue suit jacket over his arm. Geena recognized Ray Ronstadt, Kelly’s real estate boss. According to Kelly, he was newly divorced and on the prowl.

“Thanks, Doc,” Ray said, rolling down his sleeve. “When will you have the results?”

“Wednesday morning. Give me a call.” Ben cast a questioning glance at Geena. “Next?”

“Mrs. Chan.” She reached for the chart and with a nod indicated an elderly patient. Before Geena could hand the chart to Ben, Ray swaggered to the desk.

“Hey, Geena,” he said, buttoning his cuff with a nearsighted squint. “Kelly told me you were back in town. If you get bored with this one-horse burg you can always take a ride on the wild side with yours truly.”

Ben, still waiting for the chart and for Mrs. Chan to shuffle across the waiting room, frowned.

“Gosh, Ray, that sounds like too much excitement for me,” she said, smiling blandly. “Dr. Matthews says I’ve got to take it easy after my collapse.”

Ray appeared taken aback. “Oh, yeah. Sorry to hear about that.” He stuck out his neck as he adjusted his tie. “You look damn fine to me.”

“That’s very kind.” She tilted her head to one side, pen poised. “Did you need another appointment?”

“Nah. I’ll call for the results of my blood test in a few days.” He smoothed his hair with both hands. “A single guy who gets a bit of action has to be careful these days. It’s the least I can do for my lady friends.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Gross! Geena heard Linda’s suppressed giggle and was careful not to catch her eye.

“So how about dinner?” Ray went on undeterred. “The steak house in Simcoe has a two-for-one deal on Tuesdays.”

“Uh, thanks, Ray, but I’m really busy on Tuesday.” She rose and walked toward the exit.

He followed like a lamb. “I guess a gal like you gets lots of invitations.”

“Hundreds. Thousands. More than I can accommodate.” She opened the door and ushered him through. “Bye now.”

Geena handed Ben the chart just as Mrs. Chan made it to the examining room doorway.

“Very smooth,” Ben murmured to Geena. “Maybe we should get another appointment book for all your invitations. Maybe your own secretary.”

She slanted him a glance. “I don’t need a book to remember the invitations I accept.”

To her disappointment, he didn’t take the hint. Just escorted Mrs. Chan into the examining room. Geena shrugged and returned to the desk.

Late in the afternoon, long after Linda had seen the doctor and left, the door opened, and a woman came in with a baby in her arms and a young boy by the hand. The woman’s long, dark hair was pulled into a straggly ponytail, and she wore a beaded muslin blouse, which Geena recognized as vintage 1960s, over a long flowing skirt.

“Hi, I’m Carrie Wakefield,” she said. “My son, Tod, has an appointment.” She pushed the boy forward and shifted a runny-nosed baby to her other hip. “Sorry we’re late.”

“That’s okay.” Geena looked at the boy, who had a cowlick and was wearing striped pants and cowboy boots. “Hi, Tod.”

Tod regarded her solemnly out of round brown eyes. His face was thin and too pale for a boy off school for the summer. “When a pig is sick, what kind of medicine do you use?”

Geena frowned. Did the boy mistake this for a veterinary clinic? “Gosh, Tod, I don’t know. What’s wrong with the pig?”

His face crinkled in an impish grin. “You use oinkment! Get it?”

Geena laughed. “That’s cute. How old are you, Tod?”

“Nine and a quarter. Why don’t hippos play basketball?”

“Um…they’re not tall enough?”

“They don’t look good in shorts.” Tod gave a deprecating shrug. “That one’s not very good—hippos don’t even wear shorts.” Then he informed her, “I’ve got monster glue at home.”

“Come and sit down, Tod, and don’t bother the lady.” Carrie Wakefield looked worn-out and out of patience as she jiggled her crying baby in her arms.

“I’m not bothering her.” Tod turned to Geena. “Am I?”

“Not at all.” Geena rose from the desk. “Come with me, Tod.” She led him to a small table in a corner of the waiting room with toys and books for children. “Do you want to play with the trucks?”

“I want you to read to me.” He shoved his hands in his pants pockets.

“Tod,” his weary mother remonstrated. To Geena, she said, “He’s going into grade four and is perfectly capable of reading for himself.”

“That’s okay.” Geena studied the boy. His expression was half defiant, half needy, as if he was starved for attention and used to getting short-changed. She wondered what was wrong with him besides having a baby brother who required a lot of his mother’s time.

“I’d love to read to you, Tod. How about this one,” she said, showing him a collection of Calvin and Hobbes cartoons.

Tod’s face lit. “I wish I had a pet tiger.”

“Me, too.” She patted the bench beside her.

Tod leaned unselfconsciously against her side, and she was agreeably aware of his small body snuggling up to her. This is what having a child would feel like, she thought as she opened the book. Ten minutes later they were giggling at Calvin’s outrageous antics when she sensed someone watching them. Geena looked up to see Ben in the doorway, his dark eyes thoughtful.

“It’s time for you to see the doctor,” she said, closing the book.

“We haven’t finished,” Tod protested.

“Come, Tod.” Carrie rose, her baby asleep in her arms.

When they’d all trooped into the examining room, Geena tidied the magazines and toys in the waiting room. Tod was Ben’s last patient, and though she was tired, she also acknowledged that this was the most satisfying day she’d had all week. She’d enjoyed playing with the children and reminiscing with the elderly. What was she going to do tomorrow?

Maybe, she thought, as she watered the potted plants, Ben would decide she’d done such a wonderful job today he would hire her. The tasks were so different from what she was used to and so relatively stress-free that working here would seem like a holiday. As a bonus, she’d get to know Ben Matthews.

And if he got to know her, he’d see she wasn’t the irresponsible, self-indulgent person he obviously considered her to be. Okay, maybe she used to be that way, but she’d been given a new slate, so to speak, to write on as she would. All she had to do was figure out who she was and what she wanted to do with her life.

She was gazing out the window of the empty waiting room, watering can forgotten in her hands, when Tod and his mother emerged. Carrie Wakefield’s face looked pinched and white, and Tod was very quiet.

“Bye, Tod.” Geena put down the watering can and walked them to the door, holding it open as the little family filed through. “Bye, Carrie.”

She watched them from the window as they climbed into a battered Honda Civic and drove away.

Ben came and stood behind her. “Tod has acute lymphocytic leukemia.”

“Oh, no.” Geena made a soft sound of remorse in her throat. “That sweet little boy. How bad is it? Is it treatable?”

“Pretty bad, but yes, it’s treatable. He’s going into the hospital for chemotherapy tomorrow.” Ben sounded detached, but Geena could see in his eyes that he was deeply distressed. “He was diagnosed early. With treatment, he’ll be fine. Just fine.”

She wanted to believe him. She did believe him.

“You were a big help today,” he said, turning to her. “An amazing help. Thank you.”

Geena shrugged, ridiculously pleased at his praise. Would her little fantasy come true? “I enjoyed it. In fact, I could come in again tomorrow if you want me to.”

“Ah.” Ben grimaced. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m after a qualified RN to act as a nurse receptionist. With such a small practice I need someone who can take blood samples, tend to small wounds, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, of course.” Blood rushed to her cheeks. What was she thinking? Of course he’d want someone qualified. Not her, whose only talent was looking beautiful.

“I’ll pay you for today, of course,” he said quickly.

As if this was about money. She gave him a brilliant smile. “Absolutely not necessary. As I said, I enjoyed it.”

Moving past him, she returned the watering can to the kitchenette and got her purse out of the desk drawer.

“Don’t forget to get those blood samples taken and make an appointment with the nutritionist,” he said.

“I won’t.” She paused at the exit to give him a cheery wave and another smile. “Ciao.”

She kept her head high until she was around the corner from the clinic, then, despite all her training in deportment, she couldn’t help but let her shoulders slump.

That she’d saved enough to enjoy a wealthy lifestyle for the rest of her life, even if she never worked again, made no difference. That hundreds of men at one time or another had vied for her attention made no difference. Ben Matthews wasn’t impressed by beauty or money or fame.

And face it, if you took away those things, what did she have? Nothing.

Deep inside, she knew she was somebody, but no one besides her family ever bothered to look past the surface to see the real her. Especially not intelligent, educated men like Ben.