for a note to accompany the gift, she didn’t find one. And, as always, that bothered her. A lot.
Okay, she admitted, she had been delighted the first time such a gift had shown up, on Valentine’s Day, two months ago—for all of a few hours. When she’d returned from lunch that day and found a tiny present tucked into her note slot, she’d been reluctantly enchanted, especially when she found that there was no note accompanying the gift to explain its presence. She’d been even more enchanted when she’d opened the box to find a small pin inside. It was a pewter heart, not much bigger than a postage stamp, wrapped diagonally with a gold Band-Aid. She’d thought it an appropriate gift for a cardiology nurse, and had immediately pinned the heart to the breast pocket of her scrubs, just above her name tag. Then she’d waited for the giver to come forward and identify him- or herself, and his or her reason for the gesture.
Of course, since the occasion on that first gift’s appearance was Valentine’s Day, her co-workers had proposed that Rita must have a secret admirer. Rita, naturally, had considered such a suggestion ridiculous. Grown men didn’t have secret crushes on grown women—not emotionally sound grown men, anyway. But her fellow nurses had insisted, and it hadn’t been long before the rumor mill at Boston General—an astoundingly active one—was churning out a story about Rita Barone’s secret admirer.
Who could it be? everyone wondered. One of the handsome new interns? A co-worker who was too shy to make his affections known? A former patient who felt his life had been saved by the lovely, dark-eyed, dark-haired cardiology nurse?
Although a number of people had remarked on the pin that day, none had claimed to be the one who gave it to Rita. Nor had any of her co-workers seen anyone put the gift in her note slot. So Rita began to wear the pin daily, certain that eventually someone would admit to having given it to her. Perhaps there was supposed to have been a card, but it had got lost somehow. Perhaps someone simply wanted to tease her a bit by leaving her curious for a few days before identifying himself as the giver. Perhaps the person was shy, in which case that shyness might be assuaged if the person saw her wearing the gift.
But in spite of Rita continually wearing the pin, and in spite of the number of comments she received about it, no one ever came forward.
The second gift had arrived in her note slot last month, on her birthday. Again, it had been wrapped in white, glossy paper with a gold ribbon, and again, it had appeared without a card or note. When Rita had opened that one, hoping perhaps it might offer some clue as to the identity of its giver, she had found inside an inexpensive silver charm bracelet with a dozen delicate little charms related to the nursing field. She’d been reluctantly pleased by it, too, but hadn’t quite been able to halt the feeling of foreboding that had accompanied her pleasure.
She’d told herself her apprehension was silly, that obviously she did have a secret admirer—and hey, why was that such a bad thing? Then she’d donned the charm bracelet, as well, hoping again to “out” the giver.
But again, no one came forth to claim the identity of Rita Barone’s secret admirer. No one came forth for any reason at all.
Now, as she eyed this latest gift with a mixture of hesitant pleasure and growing dread, she lifted her right hand to stroke the bandaged heart pin fastened, as it always was, on the pocket of her scrubs. When she did, the charm bracelet clinked merrily on her right wrist.
Now the mysterious giver had struck again, had left her a third gift—on the third anniversary of her having started work at Boston General.
Whoever it was, she realized then, was commemorating special occasions and events—first Valentine’s Day, then her birthday, and now the anniversary of her first day at work. It must be someone who worked at the hospital, she thought. And it must be a secret admirer—for lack of a better ID. There were too many romantic overtones for it not to be. Still, she couldn’t begin to imagine who might be leaving her gifts like this. She’d noticed not one hint of interest from anyone of the opposite sex, absolutely no clue that there was a man out there who regarded her as anything more than another human being who inhabited the same planet. Not at work, and not anywhere else, either.
Not unless she was overlooking any hints and clues a man might be giving out, which she supposed was possible, since she’d really never been much interested in the opposite sex. Her sisters Gina and Maria often told her she was so focused on her work that she was missing out on everything else life had to offer, including romance.
Of course, Rita didn’t necessarily disagree with that. Her work was very important to her. More important, she admitted, than anything else. Except for family, of course. The Barones were a close-knit bunch, and family would always come first for all of them. But Rita had never wanted to be anything but a nurse, ever since she was a child, and the job gave her more satisfaction and fulfillment than she could imagine receiving anywhere else. She helped save lives here at the hospital. What could possibly be more important than that?
Well, there was saving her own life, Gina would always argue when Rita pointed that out, seeing as how Rita didn’t much have one outside work. And there was living her life, Maria would chime in, the one outside work, anyway. Whenever her sisters offered their opinions in such a way, Rita would blithely remind them that her work was her life, and she enjoyed it very much, thanks. And she truly did believe it was enough. She had a full, and very satisfying, life without having to wade through all the politics and games of a romantic relationship—especially a workplace romance.
Still, she thought now as she gingerly fingered the third little white package, it would be nice to discover who was leaving the gifts for her. If nothing else, she could rest easy knowing there was nothing more to it than someone having a bit of fun. Because she just couldn’t quite shake the sensation that there was something a bit sinister about all this anonymous gift-giving, even if the gifts in question had been totally benign.
Rita checked one more time to see if there was a card or note to accompany the gift but, not surprisingly, she found none. So, inhaling a deep breath, she tucked her finger under the gold ribbon and slowly slid it off. Then she carefully peeled back the white paper. Just as it had been with the previous two gifts, the box was plain and white, too, with no markings that might identify where the gift had been purchased. Placing it cautiously on the desk, Rita lifted the lid, then pushed aside a fold of tissue paper.
“Oh, my,” she said softly, reverently, when she saw what was inside. A small, cut-crystal heart winked merrily at her from its cushion of tissue in the box, shattering the harsh fluorescent overhead light into a billion kaleidoscopic colors. It was meant, she supposed, to be a paperweight. Somehow, though, it was much too beautiful for so functional a purpose.
A crystal heart, she remarked again. Was it a symbol of what she did for a living, caring for a fragile organ? Or a symbol of the giver’s fragile feelings for her? And how would she ever know if the giver never came forward? And why wouldn’t he? It had been two months since that first gift had appeared. Surely, by now, he was ready to make himself known. Unless…
Unless his intentions were less than honorable.
“Have you nothing better to do with your time, Ms. Barone, than enjoy an extended coffee break?”
Rita jumped at the gruffly offered question, not so much because of the question itself—unfair as it was—but because the voice belonged to Dr. Matthew Grayson. In addition to his medical skills, he was renowned for his no-nonsense approach to his work.
And also because of his complete intolerance for anything bordering on fun.
Tall, dark and brooding, that was Dr. Grayson. All the nurses and other doctors thought so. And most steered clear of him whenever they could, because they didn’t want
