one of the richest and most influential people in Boston. Ashley groaned. In her more naive days, she’d once attempted to meet Vivian through Brandon and her sister—but the elderly woman had gone to great lengths to keep to her private entourage.
Vivian Sharpe—and her grandson Aidan—were on a whole other rarified level from Ashley. Vivian sat on the board of directors at Wellness Hospital. She had a particular interest in running the Sunshine Club, the cancer charity that Brandon volunteered for. Even worse, she owned the New England Captains, the professional baseball team where Ashley’s brother-in-law used to play, until he was traded to San Francisco. Brandon was over the moon about the Captains.
“Do you know this lady?” Kylie asked.
Ashley sighed. “Not really. I know of her, but that’s about it.”
Ashley communicated with the Sunshine Club office only through intermediaries—usually Susan Vanderbilt, a public relations manager at the hospital. Ashley hadn’t understood the etiquette at first, and she’d actually dared to approach Vivian once early on, at a fancy hospital Christmas party that Brandon had been invited to attend. Vivian had barely deigned to speak to her. Ashley’s sister had told her not to feel bad—that the elderly philanthropist kept herself aloof from most people, but Ashley had sensed there was more to it than that.
It had seemed personal to her.
Truth was the woman seemed not to approve of her, and that had hit Ashley in her most vulnerable spot—the worry and shame that she was in over her head with Brandon, that she wasn’t doing a good enough job at being his mom.
Just great. She felt like weeping, but now wasn’t the time or place. Her job and maybe Brandon’s place in his new world were at stake. She wished she could call her sister—ask her if she knew a Dr. Aidan from her time working at Wellness Hospital. Was there anything about him—any commonalities that she might use to appeal to him?
Ashley took out her phone. But her sister didn’t live in Boston anymore. She was three time zones away, in San Francisco, and anyway, she was likely in surgery, administering anesthesia.
She could do this. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she?
On a whim, Ashley opened up the web browser and typed in an internet search for Doctor’s Aid, Boston and Aidan. She found her answer on the first hit.
Dr. Aidan Lowe, that was his name. There was a photo of him—his hair neater, his skin less tanned—posed beside a regal, beautiful, confident-looking woman. Dr. Fleur Sanborne. In the caption she was described not as his wife, not as a fiancée, but as his partner.
Life partner, judging by the body language. He obviously adored her.
Ashley clicked on the article. “Friendly Fire Destroys Doctor’s Aid Clinic—Hub Doctor Killed.”
Hub was the unique word that the local headline writers used for “city of Boston.” Ashley froze reading it, barely able to breathe. Her hands shaking, she could only skim bits of phrases from the newspaper article, dated last October.
Dr. Aidan Lowe, an orthopedic surgeon of this city, escaped injury during an attack that firebombed a volunteer clinic in the war-torn region of southern Afghanistan...
Dr. Fleur Sanborne, also of this city, the chief medical adviser to Doctor’s Aid, International, died this morning after succumbing to her injuries...
Gasping, Ashley put down her phone. This was horrible! No wonder poor Dr. Lowe—Aidan, he’d asked her to call him—had seemed traumatized. It had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with what he’d been through in Afghanistan.
Trembling, she shook her head. She couldn’t even imagine losing someone close to her. And she’d been so worried about a haircut?
She tucked her phone away in her pocket. “I need to go outside,” she told Kylie. “I’ll be right back.”
Kylie glanced up from her own phone. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll keep you posted, though.”
“All right.” Kylie glanced nervously toward Ilana’s private treatment room. “I’ll cover for you,” she whispered.
Ashley smiled at her. “Thanks. I’ll return the favor someday.”
On the way outside, she stopped by the beverage cart in the consultation area and grabbed a bottled water. On second thought, she grabbed two bottles, even though it wasn’t protocol. She had no idea what she was going to do. She was in too much of a rush, racing the clock, to be nervous about it.
Outside, the balmy air was welcome, and she sucked in great breaths of it. Early September in Boston was the best time of year to be in the city. Crowds of people—college students and tourists and suited financial types—wandered down the sidewalks flanking the wide boulevards lined with trees and flowering bushes. To the right was the small historic church she passed each day on her walk to Brandon’s school, but she very much doubted that Aidan had sought refuge there. He seemed angry and disoriented, wanting to leave rather than receive comfort. She didn’t know much about leaving—she’d never quite been able to find the courage to pick up and do that—but Ashley knew everything about giving comfort. It was the story of her life, and at the moment, this was the only gift she could think of to offer him.
She walked straight ahead and found Aidan sitting on a bench in the midst of a small courtyard-size garden where she’d noticed office workers gathering to eat their midday lunches. At the moment, most of the benches were deserted. The tended garden plots they faced were beautiful, yellow roses and purple flowering lavender plants scented the air. In the middle of the courtyard was a multitiered fountain that streamed soothing plumes of water.
Aidan, however, faced a completely dead plot, with spaded-up earth as desolate as a grave.
She felt sorry for him. Carefully, she headed over to his bench. The cold water bottles were sweating in her palms, and he glanced up at her as she sat.
She had no idea what to say or even how to begin talking to him. But now that she saw him in person, deeply grieving, she decided to just speak from her heart, and see where things went from there.
* * *
AIDAN STARED AT the pale, auburn-haired waif who’d had the nerve to follow him outside. “You tracked me down here for a haircut?” he said, incredulous.
“No.” She smiled brightly at him. “I’m not giving you a haircut today. I’m just bringing some water while we wait.” She handed him a cold water bottle—which he really was dying for—and he gladly accepted it.
In spite of himself he laughed. It seemed that this Ashley woman was good at surprising him.
She smiled wistfully and cracked open her own water bottle, then took a long drink. Sighing, she pressed her hand to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone I just did that,” she confided. “Staff aren’t supposed to drink the Evians and Perriers. That’s protocol.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe. But life isn’t always fair, as they say.” She fiddled with the label on her bottle, her eyes lowered to his. “I heard you just came back from overseas,” she said softly. In the sunlight her hazel
