So a woman, possibly from North America somewhere, had braved the jungle to come calling. At first he wondered if she was some kind of pharmaceutical rep who’d seen the word hospital attached to this place and actually thought she might find a sale here. As if he had the budget to go after the newest, and always the most expensive, drugs. Nah. He was totally off the radar for that. So, could it be Nancy? Was she running after him, trying to convince him to give up his frugal ways and come back to her?
Been there, done that one. Found out he couldn’t tolerate the snobs. And if there ever was a snob, it was his ex-fiancée.
“I’m Juliette Allen,” the voice behind him announced.
Damien spun around and encountered the most stunning brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. “I’m Damien Caldwell,” he said, extending his hand to shake hers. “And I wasn’t expecting you.” But, whoever she was, he was glad she’d come. Tall, long auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, ample curves, nice legs—nice everything. Yes, he was definitely glad.
“Your ad said to come in person, so here I am—in person.”
In person, and in very good form, he thought. “Then you’re applying for a position?” Frankly, she wasn’t what he’d expected. Rather, he’d expected someone like George Perkins, a doctor who was in the middle of a career burnout, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.
“Only part-time. I can give you my weekends, if you need me.”
“Weekends are good. But what are you? I mean, am I hiring a nurse, a respiratory therapist or what?”
“A physician. I’m a family practice doctor. Directed a hospital practice back in Indiana.”
“But you’re here now, asking me for work?” From director of a hospital practice to this? It didn’t make sense. “And you only want a couple days a week?”
“That’s all I have free. The rest of my time goes to recruiting medical personnel to come to Costa Rica.”
Now it was beginning to make some sense. She aided one of the country’s fastest growing industries in her real life and wanted to be a do-gooder in her off time. Well, if the do-gooder had the skills, he’d take them for those two days. The rest of her time didn’t matter to him in the least. “You can provide references?” he asked, not that he cared much to have a look at them, but the question seemed like the right one to ask.
“Whatever you need to see.”
“And you understand the conditions here? And the fact that I might not have enough money left over in my budget to pay you all the time—or ever?”
“It’s not about the money.”
Yep. She was definitely a do-gooder. “So what’s it about, Juliette?”
“I like patient care, and I don’t get to do that in my current position. I guess you can say I’m just trying to get back to where I started.”
Well, that was as good a reason as any. And, in spite of himself, he liked her. Liked her no-nonsense attitude. “So, if I hire you, when can you start?”
“I’m here now, and I don’t have to be back at my other job until Monday. I packed a bag, just in case I stayed, so I’m ready to work whenever you want me to start.”
“How about now? I have some beds that need changing and a nurse who’s doing that but who has other things to do. So, can you change a bed, Juliette?”
COULD SHE CHANGE a bed? Sad to say, she hadn’t made very many beds in her life. Back home, she and her dad had a housekeeper who did that for them. Twice a week, fresh sheets on every bed in the house, whether or not the bed had been slept on. At her dad’s insistence. Oh, and brand-new linens ordered from the finest catalogs once every few months.
That was her life then, all of it courtesy of a very generous and doting father, and she’d found nothing extraordinary about it as it had been everything she’d grown used to. Her dad had always told her it was his duty to spoil her, and she’d believed that. Now, today, living in San José, and in keeping with what she was accustomed to, she and Cynthia rented a flat that came with limited maid service. It cost them more to secure that particular amenity in their living quarters, but having someone else do the everyday chores was well worth the extra money. So, at thirty-three, Juliette was a novice at this, and pretty much every other domestic skill most people her age had long since acquired. But how difficult could it be to change a silly bed? She was smart, and capable. And if she could cure illnesses, she could surely slap a sheet onto the bed.
Easier said than done, Juliette discovered after she’d stripped the first bed, then laid a clean sheet on top of it. Tuck in the edges, fold under the corners, make sure there were no wrinkles—
She struggled through her mental procedural list, thought she was doing a fairly good job of it, all things considered. That was, until she noticed the sizable wrinkle that sprang up in the middle of the bed and crept all the way to the right side. How had that gotten there? she wondered as she tugged at the sheet from the opposite side, trying to smooth it out and, in effect, making the darned thing even worse.
“That could be uncomfortable, if you’re the one who has to sleep on it,” Damien commented from the end of the bed, where he was standing, arms folded across his chest, watching her struggle. “Causes creases in the skin if you lay on it too long.”
“I intend to straighten it out. Maybe remake the bed.” Actually, that was a lie. Her real intent was still to pat it down as much as she could, then move on to the next bed and hope the future occupant of this particular bed didn’t have a problem with wrinkles.
“You know you’ve been working on this first bed for ten minutes now? Alegria would have had all five beds changed in that amount of time, and been halfway through giving a patient a bed bath. So what’s holding you up? Because I have other things for you to do if you ever get done here.”
“This is taking a little longer because I’m used to fitted sheets,” she said defensively. Her response didn’t make any sense, not to her, probably not to Damien, but it was the best she could come up with, other than the truth, which was that she just didn’t do beds. How lame would that sound? Top-notch doctor felled by a simple bedsheet.
“Fitted sheets—nope, no such luxuries around here. In fact, our sheets are all donations from some of the locals. Used bedsheets, Juliette. The very best we have to offer. Rough-texture, well-worn hand-me-downs. But I’ll bet you’re used to a nice silk, or even an Egyptian cotton, maybe a fifteen-hundred thread count? You know, the very best the market has to offer.”
Who would have guessed Damien knew sheets? But, apparently, he did. And, amazingly, what he’d described was exactly what she had on her bed back home. Nice, soft, dreadfully expensive sheets covering a huge Victorian, dark cherrywood, four-poster antique of a bed. Her bed and sheets—luxuries she’d thought she couldn’t live without until she’d come to Costa Rica, where such luxuries were scarce, and only for those who could afford to have them imported. Which her father would do for her, gladly, if she asked him. Although she’d never ask, as that would build up his hopes that she was already getting tired of her life in Costa Rica and wanted her old life back. Back home.
