they danced, the audience clapping and cheering them on. The song ended. Papa Dee bowed.
“Such a gentleman,” Diamond cooed, putting a hand on her round belly.
“What a man,” Dexter agreed.
They all watched as the patriarch who’d lived to see five generations took one step, and then another and then fell over.
Chapter 8
Mayhem ensued.
The Drake clan surged toward their fallen patriarch, with Dexter leading the charge. “Move back!” he demanded. Reaching the man he’d idolized since before he knew the word’s meaning, he bent down to scoop him up. Just as he prepared to lift him, a voice even more commanding than his had been cut through the din of chaos.
“Do not move him!”
As one, the crowd turned toward the source of the sound. Faye moved quickly and decisively, her actions coming by rote. She’d weathered warfare in Africa, hurricane threats in Haiti. Her movements were automatic. All thoughts save those of the man on the ground—including the handsome man hovering over him—fled from her mind.
“Please. Let me through. I’m a doctor.” She dropped to her knees and placed two fingers under Papa Dee’s nose. He was not breathing. “Call 911.” Her voice was calm, authoritative, almost soothing in its surety. “Everyone step back. He needs air.” Everyone moved except Dexter, who stayed as if glued to his great-grandfather’s side. She loosened Papa Dee’s tie, ripped apart his shirt and spoke methodically. “I’m going to administer CPR.” She opened Papa Dee’s airway by tilting back his head. When still not detecting a breath, she covered his mouth with hers and sent two quick bursts of air into his body, followed by thirty chest compressions delivered between the ribcage and chest. Considering his age, she was careful to keep her hands directly over his sternum. Even so, she knew the chances were great that a rib would get broken. To save his life, however, it was a chance she had to take. The process was repeated. Breathe into the body. Chest compressions. Check for breath. Again. Finally, Papa Dee moaned. Very slight. Almost inaudible. But it was a sound.
Fortunately, not the only one. The blare of sirens could be heard in the distance. Faye looked up and caught Dexter’s panicked eyes boring into hers. “Someone needs to direct the paramedics to where we are.”
As if a sprinter’s gun had been fired, Dexter was up and moving through the crowd. The resort’s security team worked to keep the guests at bay although honestly, respect for the man they’d come to celebrate kept most everyone at a respectable distance.
Within seconds, paramedics stormed in. As one kneeled down to begin work on Papa Dee, Faye addressed another one. “I’m Dr. Buckner. It seems we have a man with a heart condition. The patient has been somewhat stabilized, but we need to get him quickly to the hospital.”
They secured an oxygen mask on Papa Dee, put him on a stretcher and quickly wheeled him around to the side entrance. Dexter walked briskly alongside the gurney. The paramedic to whom Faye had been speaking uttered a quick “thanks” before turning to run behind the other.
She stayed him with a hand on his arm. “What hospital?”
“Loma Linda.” And then he was gone.
Faye turned and went in the opposite direction, away from the side entrance and toward the front entrance, which was closest to the hotel and its parking lot. Only one thing was on her mind: getting her credentials and then locating the hospital through her GPS. Thankfully, she’d had only one flute of champagne, had taken only one sip from the second that had been offered during the toast. In the space of a few minutes, Papa Dee had gone from being a person whose party she was attending to a person whose life had been in her hands. As a doctor who practiced with her heart, she had to make sure her patient was all right. She wouldn’t be able to rest until she knew.
Within the span of fifteen minutes, Faye was taking the Clinton-Keith exit off I-215. After two more left turns she arrived at the hospital, parked in a designated spot and entered through the emergency entrance.
“Hello,” she said to the receptionist at the desk. “I’m Dr. Buckner, and I’m here to check on a patient, David Drake Sr. He came in probably five, ten minutes ago suffering from cardiac arrest and perhaps other complications.” She placed her credentials down on the desk as she spoke.
“Yes, Doctor,” the receptionist replied after a quick perusal of Faye’s ID, the keys on her computer being clicked rapidly as she viewed the screen. “He’s in emergency right now.”
“The attending physician?”
More key clicks. “Dr. Saunders. I’m not sure we can get you into the emergency room—”
“That won’t be necessary. I can speak with the doctor when he’s finished. Which way to the waiting room?”
“Right around the corner. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” Faye rounded the corner. Dexter was the first sight she saw.
She stopped.
He stopped. His eyes were glassy; worry was painted all over his face. “You’re a doctor.”
“Yes, I am.”
“My great-grandfather. Do you think...”
“We don’t know, Dexter. But he was breathing when the paramedics arrived and his heartbeat, while not overly strong, was steady. His skin tone looked good, and there was no drastic drop in his body temperature. I think the best thing for him right now is all of us thinking positive thoughts and believing in the best possible outcome.”
“You’re right.” He continued looking at her. His expression was unreadable. “Thank you.”
As he looked into her doe-brown eyes and she stared into his brownish-hazel orbs, something happened. A heat, low and mostly unidentifiable, passed between them. The same as the one she’d felt on the dance floor while in his arms. Then, like now, it was gone in an instant.
“I was headed to the waiting room.” Faye walked past him and into the room, where various families huddled with combinations of faith and worry, hope and fear. Her targeted destination was easy to spot. Decked out in their party wear, the Drake clan, along with concerned employees who’d come in on their day off to recognize the founder, took up a third of the room. Halfway there, the man she remembered as the son of Papa Dee spotted her. He said something to the group and a dozen heads swiveled in her direction.
“Doctor.” David Drake Jr. was the first to speak.
“How is he?”
“What happened?”
“Is he going to be all right?”
These questions rang out at once. Faye raised her hands to still them. “I just now arrived and haven’t been in the emergency room or spoken to the attending physician. The nurse says he’s stable, and when she has a moment, she’ll let the team know I’m here.”
“What do you think happened to my father?” David Jr.’s voice was strong, but deep concern shown in his eyes.
Faye was almost sure that Papa
