“Ellicott General is like a small city, and I’ve spent most of my time in the ‘heart’ of town, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Mort came to life again. “I get it, Doc,” the monkey said. “Cardiologist…heart…. Ha-ha-ha.” Mort patted Wade’s shoulder. “First-floor elevators to the giant stuffed animal cages, left down the hall, office on the right.” Clapping, the monkey added, “The sign above the door says Child Services. Got it?”
Wade was about to echo “Got it,” when Patrice winked and ducked into the hall.
“She spreads such joy wherever she goes,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick said as Wade pulled the curtain around her daughter’s bed. “And isn’t she just the cutest thing?”
“Yeah, cute,” he muttered halfheartedly, opening Emily’s file. He’d never been a big advocate of non-family members meandering in and out of the hospital, overstaying their welcome, leaving behind their germs. And Patrice McKenzie had built a career of inviting them to do just that.
He wondered how much joy she’d feel like spreading if he gave her his two cents worth on the subject.
He pictured the long-lashed, dark eyes, heard her lilting voice in his memory, and found himself fighting an urge to rush through Emily’s examination so he could make his way past the Zoo Lobby to the Child Services office…
…and the lovely lady who’d breathed life into Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey.
She caught sight of her reflection in the silver frame that held a photo of her father, taken before the fiery car crash. Instinctively, she fluffed her hair, effectively hiding the scar. The hideous, horrible welt coiled from just below her right earlobe to the corner of her eye, like a rope that tied her, permanently, to the accident that had paralyzed her father.
Patrice sat back and squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t until her knuckles began to ache that she realized how tightly she’d been gripping the chair’s wooden armrests. It had taken several sessions with her pastor to realize why she refused to get rid of the picture…and the scar. Flexing her fingers, she sighed. “Someday,” Pete Phillips had counseled, “you’ll give them both to God. Until then—”
Footsteps, just outside her office door, cut short the memory. Grabbing a pen, she hunched over the papers piled high on her desk and feigned hard work.
“Knock, knock….”
She recognized the charming baritone: Dr. Wade Cameron.
Patrice looked up and smiled. “Hi,” she said, standing. “Come on in.”
He placed a partitioned cardboard tray on one of the chrome-and-blue upholstered chairs in front of her desk, then sat in the other. “All they had was cherry,” he said, handing her a plastic-wrapped slice of pie. “Hope that’s okay.”
A nervous giggle popped from her lips. “Oh. Wow. I, um, I was only kidding,” she said, as he put a disposable cup on the corner of her desk. “About the pie, I mean.”
He held up one hand. “We had a deal.” Grinning, he glanced at the puppet, leaning on the silver picture frame. “Well, the monkey and I had a deal, anyway.”
She liked his smile. Liked his eyes, too. There was something familiar about him. No big surprise; thousands of medical professionals made up the Ellicott staff. She’d probably passed him in the halls, or shared an elevator, or stood in the cafeteria line with—
“Your directions were great,” he said. “I found your office just like that.” He snapped his fingers, then glanced around the room. “Kinda dim in here. You want me to hit the lights?”
She lifted her chin. “No. Thank you. Fluorescent light…” Pausing, Patrice folded both hands on the file folders stacked on the blotter. “It’s…it’s hard on my eyes.” Not quite a lie, but not exactly the truth, either. She found the incandescent glow of the sixty-watt light-bulb in her desk lamp more than adequate to work by, and it prevented people from seeing her scar.
“Well,” Wade said, pointing at the mess on her desk, “I can see you’re busy, so I’ll get right to the point.” He leaned forward, balancing both elbows on his knees. “I think we’ve met before.”
She put her hands in her lap. “Really?”
He nodded. “Fifteen years ago, in the ER at University Hospital.”
Patrice swallowed. Hard. Because fifteen years ago today, her brother had died. She felt her mouth drop open. “So that’s why you look so familiar. You’re the nice boy who bought me chocolate milk.”
One shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. “I didn’t buy it—the nurse at the reception desk gave it to me.”
“I stand corrected. You’re the nice boy who brought me chocolate milk.”
Wade stared at his clenched fists.
Patrice peeled the lid off her cup of coffee. When the puff of steam evaporated, she realized it wasn’t coffee, after all, but hot chocolate. Smiling, she said, “So you’re still a nice boy, I see.”
Even in the dim light, she could see him flush, reminding her of an innocent boy.
“So how’re your folks?” he asked. “I remember seeing them, too, that night.”
She swallowed again. “They’re…” Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. Since it wasn’t likely she’d be seeing him again, except maybe in passing, Patrice saw no point in telling him all the gory details. “We never quite got around to talking about why you were in the ER that night.”
His gaze darting from her face to Mort to his own clasped hands, Wade frowned. “I was checking on the condition of a—” his frown deepened “—a friend.”
“How’d he make out?”
He looked up. “Huh?”
“Your, uh, friend. How is he?”
“He, um, he died that night.”
Patrice leaned forward. “Oh, Dr. Cameron—”
“Hey, we’re old pals, so call me Wade, okay?”
“Sorry to hear about your friend,” she said. “Guess that was a pretty dismal night for both of us, wasn’t it.”
Something was happening behind those sparkling, hazel eyes. Something that made Patrice wish she had the ability to read minds.
Wade got to his feet. “Anyway,” he said, neatly sidestepping the question, “you’re busy, so…”
Patrice stood, too. Somewhere deep in her heart, she’d hoped that maybe the handsome Dr. Cameron’s interest in her was inspired by more than mere curiosity. She checked to make sure her scar was still hidden. Thankfully, it was. But maybe he’d seen it in Emily’s hospital room, where the lights were much brighter than in her office. “Thanks for the hot chocolate,” she said. “And the pie.”
He waved her thanks away. “Well…”
Well, what? she wanted
