Stacy gave Jacquelyn a teary smile. “She was such a sweet lady. Always smiling, she never once complained. I know she was in pain, especially at the end, yet she never said a harsh word to anybody.”
As Stacy broke into fresh tears, Jacquelyn folded her arms and took a deep breath. She was used to the sight of tears; she’d cried more than her share of them when her own mother died from complications stemming from breast cancer. At sixteen, Jacquelyn had been a lot like Stacy—frightened, unsure and heartbroken. But broken hearts could mend…if you learned how to bury the pain.
“Listen,” Jacquelyn spoke with calm detachment, “I know it hurts to lose someone. But you’ve got to get past the pain. Trust me, I know. I lost my mother and then became an oncology nurse because I want to help people get better. And as a nurse, I’ve learned to detach myself from the hurt.”
The tissues muffled Stacy’s words. “That sounds impossible.”
“No, it’s not.” Jacquelyn placed her hand on Stacy’s arm. “You can’t help your patients if you allow yourself to be paralyzed by sorrow or worry. They need someone who can be objective, who can stay cool in a crisis. They aren’t asking for our pity. If you go out there looking like this, you’ll only upset the patients who are still fighting to survive. If you’re going to be a good nurse, a professional nurse, you’ve got to stop blubbering every time something goes wrong.”
Do whatever you have to, but don’t let the pain into your heart.
A cloud of guilt crossed Stacy’s face. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Jacquelyn sighed. She’d never get that emesis basin for Mrs. Baldovino if Stacy didn’t surrender the supply closet. “Listen, I know you haven’t been here as long as I have—” she reached past Stacy for the stack of aluminum basins on the shelf “—but this is an oncology practice, and many of our patients die. Some of them live for years after treatment, some for months, but death is a part of life. We’ve all got to die sometime, and some of our patients die sooner than the others. But you can’t let it get to you.”
There. She’d just given Stacy the standard speech on how to successfully work in an oncology practice. It was good, practical advice, if Stacy could make it work.
“I can’t help it,” Stacy whispered. She wiped her nose again. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop missing people like Mrs. Hubbard. She wasn’t just a patient, she was a friend. She brought me a pot of homemade chicken soup last winter when she heard I was out with the flu. She said her children always liked chicken soup when they were sick—”
“That’s where you made your mistake,” Jacquelyn interrupted, tucking the basin under her arm. “Rule number one—don’t accept gifts from patients, don’t tell them about your love life, and never, ever go to their homes. They can call rent-a-nurse if they need home care. Don’t get tangled up in their personal lives and don’t let them into yours. Don’t go to funerals. If you were close to a patient, you can send a card to the family. Trust me, I’ve been here five years, and I know what I’m talking about.”
Leaving Stacy in the closet, she tossed a final bit of advice over her shoulder as she moved away. “Don’t grieve for the ones we lose, Stacy, celebrate the ones we manage to save—if even for a little while.”
“Concetta Baldovino, if you keep losing weight, I’m going to have to submit your picture to the Ford Modeling Agency.”
Jacquelyn paused outside the open door of the examination room, the emesis basin in her hand. The tall stranger inside the exam room had to be Jonah Martin, but this man looked like no doctor Jacquelyn had ever seen. He was exquisite—no other word for him. Muscles rippled under the tailored denim shirt he wore, and the arm under his short sleeve was bare and silky with golden hairs. His hands, beautiful, long-fingered and strong, held the patient’s chart with nonchalant grace.
Half-aware that her pulse and breathing had quickened, she stood like a deer caught in a car’s headlights when he looked up.
For a moment he studied her intently, then his square jaw tensed visibly. “Nurse Wilkes, I presume?” he said, the blue of his eyes washing over her like a cold wave. “Does it always take ten minutes to retrieve a basin from the supply closet? Mrs. Baldovino was in need of your attention.”
Momentarily speechless in surprise, Jacquelyn could only gape at him. She hadn’t been gone ten minutes; she had left her patient alone for three minutes at the most. And who was he, the invisible man, to judge her?
“I—I’m sorry, Doctor,” she stammered, the words tripping over her unwilling tongue. She moved into the room and thrust the basin forward onto the table next to Mrs. Baldovino, then moved out of the range of those blue eyes.
The clear-cut lines of his profile softened as he turned again to his patient. “Now, about those photos for the Ford Agency—”
His ridiculous banter brought a smile to his weary patient’s face. “I don’t think so, Doctor.” Mrs. Baldovino shook her head. “My clothes are about to fall off me. And my husband says he’s not going to buy me a new wardrobe because as soon as I go into remission I’ll start eating again.” For an instant, wistfulness stole into her expression. “I think Ernesto prefers me with a little padding on these old bones.”
“I’m sure you grow more beautiful to him with each passing day.” Dr. Martin leaned back in the rolling chair and slid his hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. “In fact,” he said, the warmth of his smile echoing in his voice, “as soon as you’ve completed this round of chemo, I’ll treat you and your hubby to a lasagna dinner. You name the place and time.”
“Ah, Dr. Martin.” Mrs. Baldovino’s dark eyes gleamed with wicked humor. “You don’t know what you are saying. We Italians are very picky about our pasta.”
“Of course you are,” Dr. Martin answered, leaning forward to pick up her chart. “Why do you think I’m asking you to name the place?”
Mrs. Baldovino’s smile deepened into laughter.
What happened here? Jacquelyn stared at the back of Dr. Martin’s head. A moment ago she had been subjected to a verbal scalding because this patient was supposedly about to vomit, but now the woman was talking about pasta and planning a dinner….
“Excuse me.” Jacquelyn stepped forward, crossed her arms and glanced pointedly at the emesis basin on the exam table. “I thought you were feeling nauseous, Mrs. B.”
“I was.” The woman’s smile brightened as she turned to her doctor. “But this man, he makes me laugh.”
“Ah, Concetta, now you are going to get me into trouble.” Dr. Martin flipped open Mrs. Baldovino’s chart. “According to Nurse Wilkes’s notes, you’ve decided to forego a mastectomy so I can give your husband a tummy tuck.”
The woman threw back her head and let out a great peal of laughter. “Ah, Doctor Martin, you are naughty! But you are right, my Ernesto could use more than a few tucks!”
Jacquelyn turned toward the row of cabinets along the wall and rolled her eyes. So much for polished and proficient…
She turned to him with a let’s-be-professional look on her face and flinched slightly when his powerful gaze met hers.
Dr. Martin leaned toward his patient and
