Читать книгу Invitation to Italian - Tracy Kelleher, Tracy Kelleher - Страница 9

Monday morning

DR. SEBASTIANO FONTERRA folded his arms and leaned on the blotter positioned precisely in the middle of his immaculate desk. A Venetian glass vase, black with orange swirls, was juxtaposed against the flat plane. It was a gift from the board of directors of Grantham hospital, and in Sebastiano’s opinion, hideous. Naturally, he kept it prominently displayed.

Sebastiano offered a sincere nod to demonstrate his attentiveness to the stately woman sitting across from him who had been speaking to him—no, haranguing him—for more than half an hour.

He smiled politely, masking the subversive fantasy bubbling in his brain, the fantasy of jumping atop his desk and, with his arms outstretched and his face raised heavenward, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Per me questo lavoro non vale la pena!” Which somewhat loosely translated to, “They can’t pay me enough to keep doing this job!”

Not that he would ever allow himself to act so…indecorously. So emotionally. Sebastiano didn’t do emotional, let alone fantasy.

What he did do was perform his job as the CEO of the University Hospital of Grantham with admirable skill and considerable grace. He needed both qualities when dealing with the woman seated across from him, the woman who headed up the hospital’s fundraising committee and who had, through personal donations, ensured that her late husband’s name would be emblazoned on the oncology wing of the new hospital.

So with seeming equanimity, he shifted his posture and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Since he didn’t have the slightest idea what she’d been talking about—having tuned out somewhere between her description of her newest peony cultivar and her criticism of how the ink on the local newspaper, the Grantham Courier, came off on her cream-colored Chanel suit—he offered his tried-and-true conversational gambit. “You always bring a unique perspective, Mrs. Phox,” he said warmly. Then he offered up a smile meant to convey sincerity and sensitivity. Not many could carry off the feat with such visible genuineness.

The society dame rotated her head slightly. If a weighty volume of Emily Post’s Etiquette had been atop her immaculately coiffed gray hair, it wouldn’t have shifted a millimeter. She eyed Sebastiano with arched brows. “I was merely inquiring if you were free for a working breakfast at the Grantham Club on Friday to meet with Rufus Treadway. We need to discuss the impact of the new hospital building on the neighborhood,” she said. Rufus was the former mayor of Grantham and unspoken representative for the historical African-American neighborhood where the hospital was located.

“As I am sure you are well aware, the proposed expansion is not completely welcome in the immediate neighborhood, and I thought that Rufus could prove to be an effective mediator.” She looked at him with a skeptical eye. “And, please, I insist. Call me Iris.”

Sebastiano cleared his throat. “Of course. Iris. What I meant was your suggestion to meet over lunch at the club presents a less confrontational setting.” He wondered if Iris Phox bought it.

She didn’t blink.

Sebastiano sighed. “Listen, I have to apologize. I must confess my mind wondered a second there, not a reflection on your conversation but my own hectic schedule.”

Iris nodded. “You do work hard. And don’t think that we on the board don’t appreciate it. Your efforts at ushering the building plans through the zoning and planning committees have been masterful. Your ability to attract corporate sponsors beyond compare. And needless to say, your embrace of the community hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Sebastiano had long ago lost count of the number of rubber chicken dinners he’d attended to support various local causes, everything from the Grantham Open Space Committee to the Grantham After-school Program, with the Grantham Historical Society, the Grantham Chamber Music Society and the Grantham Public Library Fund somewhere in between.

“You’re too generous,” he said, still experiencing the indigestion from Saturday evening’s Friends of the Grantham University Art Museum fundraiser. The meal had a Spanish theme in honor of a recent acquisition of a Goya painting. The chicken paella had left a lasting impression.

Iris sat ramrod straight. She placed her gloves beneath the stiff handles of her alligator bag, which was neatly positioned on the side of his desk. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” She tilted her finely pointed chin a precise fifteen degrees.

Sebastiano winced. “Personal?”

“Yes, I don’t mean to pry.”

That seemed exactly what she was trying to do.

“I was wondering…are you happy here?” she asked.

Sebastiano frowned. “If you mean am I content with my job, you don’t need to worry that I am considering other offers.”

Iris pursed her lips. “That’s not what I mean. And I know you’ve been offered positions at larger hospitals.”

Sebastiano raised his eyebrows.

“However tantalizing some of these offers may be, I am a good enough judge of character to know that you wouldn’t think of leaving until new ground is broken and all the funds are raised.” She crossed her still trim legs at the ankles. “No, what I’m talking about has nothing to do with professional contentment. On the contrary, I’m talking about personal fulfillment.” She eyed him closely. “Are you happy?”

Sebastiano ground his back teeth. His dentist had warned him at his last checkup that he was doing this. “What is ‘happy’?” he asked.

“Please, I’m not discussing Schopenhauer here,” Iris said, dismissing his question. “Though after taking a course on German philosophy at the Adult School, I wouldn’t mind. Still, that is not the point of this discussion. What I’m getting at is that to me, you appear disconnected, which is not to say uninterested or lacking empathy. Nor am I referring to the fact that you seem overworked. What I mean to say, and, please, you must remember that I am not one to mince words.”

Sebastiano bit back a grin. “How could I forget?”

“What I mean to say then, is that you appear quite alone, one might even say lonely. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sebastiano couldn’t think of anything he wanted less than company. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m really quite all right. There’s absolutely nothing wrong, and as a doctor, I make sure to stay atop my physical condition.”

“I’m not talking about blood tests and annual checkups,” Iris clarified.

“I understand, but rest assured.”

There was a knock. His office door swung open.

He narrowed his eyes, hesitated, then focused his attention again on Iris. “Trust me. Nothing’s wrong.”

A sarcastic laugh from across the room mocked his statement. “Well, you might not be able to think of anything wrong, but believe me, I can tell you more than a thing or two!” the irate female voice announced.

Sebastiano stood up. He buttoned the middle button of his charcoal-gray suit jacket. “Mrs. Phox…Iris…excuse this unexpected interruption. I’m not sure if you’ve met one of our obstetricians?”

Iris leaned around the side of the wing chair to get a view of the intruder. “Ah, Julie, my dear, so good to see you again. I was just speaking of you this morning.”