A Time To Mend. Angela HuntЧитать онлайн книгу.
a swing for two drifted lazily in the afternoon breeze. Jonah paid the taxi driver and together the two men hoisted the huge mastiff from the vehicle’s backseat.
Bailey, still a bit wobbly on his feet, had to be half urged, half carried up the front steps, but as soon as Jacquelyn and Jonah got him into the house the dog perked up and trotted gratefully to an old blanket by the fireplace.
“He knows he’s home,” Jonah observed, watching as the dog curled up for a nap. “And I have to admit, it’s nice to see a dog by the fireplace.”
“Even if we hardly ever have a fire,” Jacquelyn answered, dropping her keys on a small desk as she passed through the foyer into a cheery kitchen. “Let me get you a cold drink, Doctor Martin. It’s still as hot as blazes outside and carrying Bailey is no easy job.”
He paused, weighing the heaviness of his past experience against the unwelcome prospect of another night alone in his apartment. Why shouldn’t he stay for a few minutes? He had planned to walk back to his apartment from here, and it would be nice to enjoy a cold drink before setting out. This meant nothing. Jacquelyn Wilkes had a boyfriend; she certainly wasn’t interested in him. In fact, as soon as her gratitude for his help wore off, she’d probably pick up her quiet crusade of aversion right where she left off.
“I’ll take a Coke, if you have one,” Jonah answered, following her into the kitchen. “Thanks for the offer, Nurse Wilkes.”
“Nurse Wilkes?” She wrinkled her nose as she gracefully stepped to a cupboard. “After the day we’ve had, don’t you think you can call me Jacquelyn? Dr. Kastner does.”
He pressed his lips together, uncomfortable with this new level of intimacy. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”
“I prefer. I don’t want to hear any more of this ‘Nurse Wilkes’ stuff. It’s Jacquelyn. Or Jackie. Whichever you like better.”
“Which do you prefer?”
She paused. “Funny,” she said, slowly opening the cupboard door. “No one’s ever asked me that. My father calls me Jacquelyn, pronounced the French way—you know, Zhock-leen. My brother calls me Jack, and Craig calls me Jacquelyn.”
The boyfriend. He was someone significant, or she wouldn’t have mentioned him. Jonah felt his reserve begin to thaw. He forced a smile. “And what does Bailey call you?”
Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Mom.”
She pulled two glasses from the cupboard, then stole a glance at his face. “It’s okay to smile, you know, neither Bailey nor I will bite you. Why so formal, Doc?”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “I’m not always. You yourself said I was too informal with the patients.”
“But not with your nurses.” She held the glasses for an instant, watching him, then smiled and pointed toward the refrigerator. “Ice would be a good idea, don’t you think? Why don’t you get it while I dig some Cokes out of the pantry?”
He came forward and took the glasses from her, feeling a bit like an alien in hostile territory. Since entering the house her spirit had unfurled like a blooming rose, while at the threshold his courage had begun to shrivel. Soon there’d be nothing left of him but a Cheshire cat smile…unless he got out of here. Fast.
“Don’t go to any trouble for me,” he called, looking toward the pantry into which she had disappeared. “I just remembered that I really need to go over some figures for a research study. I promised some colleagues out in California that I’d send my analysis—”
“Drat.” She stepped out of the pantry, wiping her hands on her shorts. From the concentrated look on her face he doubted she’d heard a word he’d said. “I thought I had some Cokes. Hold on a minute, will you, while I look outside in the garage?”
“Jacquelyn, I—”
She didn’t stop, but sprinted out the back, the screen door slamming behind her like an exclamation point. Sighing, Jonah moved toward the refrigerator and held the glasses to the ice dispenser. He was thirsty. Maybe he could stay a few minutes and then beat a quick retreat.
The screen door creaked and slammed again, and she stood in the kitchen, her face flushed. “I forgot! I don’t have any Coke, nothing with caffeine at all. But I’ve got Sprite and ginger ale.”
“Anything will do.” He placed the ice-filled glasses on the table. “I’d even take water, anything convenient.” And fast.
“Okay.” She moved to the pantry and pulled out a two-liter bottle of clear soda, then began to pour. In the silence, Jonah took a seat at her small table and looked around. He had expected his capable nurse’s kitchen to be spotless and efficient, but the room was more charming and homey than he would have imagined. Blue-and-white gingham curtains fluttered from the open windows, and the cheerful pattern was repeated on the seat cushions, place mats and even on dishes in the wooden plate rack. The decor reminded Jonah of his mother’s comfortable kitchen, a memory he resisted with all his might.
“Drinking healthy, are you?” he asked, searching for a way to make safe conversation. “Avoiding caffeine and all that?”
“Yes.” She lowered the soda bottle and waited for the bubbles to settle. One of her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “A few weeks ago I felt a cyst in my breast and decided to cut out caffeine and take vitamin E. You know, the standard deal.”
“Are you certain,” he said, watching her pour again, “the lump is a cyst? Did you have it aspirated?”
She flashed him a confident smile. “Now, Doctor, don’t start recruiting me as a patient. I’m twenty-eight years old and I don’t have breast cancer. I mean, what are the odds?”
He accepted the drink she offered and debated whether to continue or let the matter drop. “The odds?” He casually sipped from his glass. “Perhaps you should tell me. Have you ever borne a child?”
Her hand flew to her throat in an expression of mock horror. “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”
He leaned forward. “I’m not joking, Jacquelyn. And you ask our patients questions like these all the time. You asked about the odds, so let’s figure them out. So tell me—have you ever given birth to a child?”
She sank into a chair opposite him and smiled in tolerant exasperation. “No.”
“Fine. Did you begin your menstrual periods before age twelve?”
She rolled her eyes. “No.”
“Good. Have you ever had an abortion?”
Her eyes narrowed and grew serious. “This is personal.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“Answer the question. An abortion before age eighteen increases a woman’s risk for breast cancer—so have you had an abortion?”
“No.”
“Fine.” He sank back in his chair. “So far, so good. Just one more thing—have you a female relative with breast cancer?”
A cold, hard-pinched expression settled on her face. “Yes.”
“Your mother?”
She nodded.
He inhaled a deep breath. “Was your mother’s breast cancer pre-or post-menopausal?”
“Pre. She died at thirty-six.” Jacquelyn’s voice fell to a whisper. “I was sixteen.”
A flicker of apprehension coursed through him. This was not terribly serious; women whose mothers developed pre-menopausal breast cancer in one breast stood only one and a half times the risk of the general population.
“Your mother’s cancer—” he forced himself to maintain his professional tone “—unilateral