new marriage.
Charles had let Claire know, in no uncertain terms, that he couldn’t put up with her having Lupus. She’d been the same woman he’d met, fell in love with, and married, with the addition of a new diagnosis, but he couldn’t understand that. She’d become imperfect to him, and he couldn’t accept it. He’d made her feel guilty for getting sick, and ugly, when he’d look at her with disdain when her Lupus rash flared.
He was a successful businessman who insisted on a healthy partner to join him on adventures and extensive travel, and the once-loving man had shut down and turned away. Just like that. As if it was all her fault.
The pre-nuptial agreement left Claire with nothing beyond modest alimony and monthly child support payments. She knew Charles would come through in an emergency, but refused to depend on him for anything else. His not accepting her chronic illness had shattered her trust in both love and men, and she’d vowed to move on with her life—alone.
She’d recently had a stretch of good health and, with the new job, good fortune. As far as she was concerned, her past was just that. Over. And, with time, she hoped to get over the emotional damage, too.
Claire stood and moved to the window. She lifted the sash to allow fresh air inside and, gazing across rooftops, trees, and eventually toward the huge blue sea, she couldn’t help thinking that her luck had finally turned.
By early afternoon, Claire had seen a dozen patients and was getting into the routine of the clinic’s patient flow. Twenty-minute appointments were generous compared with the hospital where she used to be affiliated, which allowed only half that.
She read her next patient’s records on her computer, and heard footsteps down the hall, then a looming shadow covered her desk and Jason appeared. His mouth was in a straight line, and his eyes squinted tensely. He looked perturbed, to put it mildly.
“A back rub? That’s what you recommended to Ruth Crandall to add to her medical regimen?” he asked.
Claire had seen so many patients already, she had to stop and think who he’d referred to. The woman battling depression.
“Well, I noticed she’d had her antidepressant increased at her last visit and her general complaints were unchanged. I thought we’d try something different.”
“A massage?” He lifted a brow and handed the phone message toward her.
Claire read. Mrs. Crandall had called to tell him, after her visit that morning, what a great idea it had been to add daily massages to her routine, and how much she’d enjoyed meeting the new Nurse Practitioner. Under usual circumstances, a message such as this would be considered high praise, worthy of a pat on the back or handshake for a job well done. Evidently Jason Rogers didn’t see it that way. His irritated attitude put her on defensive.
“Daily massages are invaluable for depression,” she said. “They help relieve the aches and pains, and increase the release of endorphins for a sense of heightened well-being. There is healing power with touch.”
“Is that so?”
Claire stood. “It’s a perfectly good alternative to increased drug therapy. Wouldn’t you agree that it isn’t all about ‘find and fix’ anymore in medicine?” She waited for a response, but he just stood there with a steely glare. “Sometimes medical professionals need to integrate all avenues of health care for best results.”
“You may have a point, but I’ve never once considered a massage as health care.” He paced toward her framed credentials hanging on the wall. “Next you’ll be prescribing aromatherapy, I presume.”
She made a sly smile, and he caught her. “Maybe I will.” Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and paused. He’d obviously come to reprimand her, but nothing in this lingering gaze could prove it. He investigated her face and she felt suddenly self-conscious. She fought off the urge to pat her hair, wondered if her lipstick had smeared. “I’ve studied alternative medicine, and I believe there is much to be said for balancing the systems. After interviewing Mrs. Crandall, I identified her as a specific constitutional type who would benefit from massage.” And, speaking of constitutional types, you’d be classified as uptight!
“She lost her husband last year,” he said. “She’s grieving and depressed. My job is to get her through this rough patch with the medicine available and a grief support group, not to send her to a spa to waste her money for a superficial beauty treatment.” He leaned his knuckles on her desk and stared deeper into her eyes.
Claire refused to back away. “The power of touch is hugely beneficial for depression,” she said, staring back. “Have you ever tried it?” His left eye twitched. “I didn’t tell Mrs. Crandall to stop the medications you’ve prescribed.”
Jason eased back, no longer on the attack. “This isn’t how we practice medicine here, Ms. Albright.”
“You told her to get exercise. What’s the difference if I suggest massage? And the only complaint I see in this phone message—” she waved the message in the air “—is your interpretation of it. I’d say she was thoroughly happy about her visit today.”
“That’s not the point,” he said.
He seemed a bit unsure and she couldn’t help playing with him. “So one of our goals isn’t to make our patients happier?”
He tossed her an exasperated glance. “Just do me a favor and consult me first, Ms. Albright.”
She had the urge to say Aye-aye, Cap ‘n but noticed his glare had softened, and the tension around his eyes had disappeared. He really wasn’t comfortable interacting with people. Or was it just with her? Wanting desperately to make amends for any hard feelings, Claire smiled. “OK. But would you do me a favor and call me Claire?”
He glanced at her one last time, nodded in a stiff business fashion, and left the room.
Claire sat down and tossed her pen on the desk. She hadn’t given the woman a list of herbs to run out and buy, or asked her to ignore her medicine. She’d merely suggested that daily massage might help her through her depression. And the patient had been very receptive to the idea, enough to send a complimentary message about her add-on appointment to her regular doctor.
Why did Jason Rogers have to be such a wet rag about it?
She ran her hands through her hair and thought about the man who’d left her completely confused. She didn’t know his history, but would bet her first pay check that something awful had happened to him. Maybe he was one of those people who felt entitled to happiness and things hadn’t panned out, so he’d turned bitter. Whatever the reason, on a whim, she decided to go out of her way to be nice to him. Just to bug him.
When her first day at the clinic was over, Claire gathered her belongings, and prepared to leave. In the future, she’d be careful when counseling Dr. Rogers’s patients. One nasty run-in with him was enough.
Her eyes got big with the thought. She hoped Jenny Whatley, the university student, didn’t tell Dr. Rogers about what she’d suggested for her daily eyestrain headaches.
Not one second later, as she shut down her computer, Jason came barreling into her office.
Claire set her jaw and straightened her spine.
“What the hell is
