A Time To Mend. Angela HuntЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 lightly slapped his hand on his knee. “I know how to really spice up this dinner we’re planning,” he said, his lowered voice a rough stage whisper. “For entertainment, let’s invite Nurse Wilkes. I have the feeling she’s a regular barrel of laughs.”
Jacquelyn pursed her lips and stared at the ceiling, her embarrassment yielding quickly to raw fury.
“Oh, I don’t know if that is a good idea,” she heard Mrs. Baldovino answer. “My husband would be happy to have such a pretty young woman along, but since I am not as attractive as I used to be—”
“Ernesto won’t even look in her direction,” Dr. Martin answered, making a note in the patient’s file. “He will be too busy gazing at you, Concetta.”
And what am I—dog meat? The prideful thought skittered like a wild rabbit through Jacquelyn’s brain. She glared at him, then jerked in alarm when the doctor lifted his gaze and frankly assessed her.
“Oh, my.” A mocking light gleamed in his eye. “I’m afraid I’ve offended Nurse Wilkes and we’ve only just met. I wouldn’t want us to get started on the wrong foot.”
“The wrong foot?” Jacquelyn sputtered, bristling with indignation. In an instant she forgot everything she’d ever heard about airing her grievances in front of a patient, about professional manners, about the respect a nurse should show to a doctor. He was new; he hadn’t yet earned her respect. He didn’t deserve it.
Rancor sharpened her voice. “I’d call sexual harassment the wrong way to start a working relationship.” She looked pointedly at Mrs. Baldovino, searching for an ally. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. B.?”
“Oh, my.” If possible, the woman grew a shade paler. “Nurse Jacquelyn, the doctor was only joking.”
Jonah Martin’s jaw clenched as he rejected the patient’s softly spoken defense. “Without a doubt, my joke was in bad taste.” Like a Boy Scout taking an oath, he lifted his right hand and stared into Jacquelyn’s eyes with solemn sincerity. “On my word of honor, Nurse Wilkes, I hereby promise that I did in no case intend to demean you or suggest that your participation in an evening of camaraderie and lasagna would be necessary for you to continue your employment. I hope that my jest did in no way cause you discomfort, humiliation or mental distress.”
The biting tone in his voice set Jacquelyn’s teeth on edge—was he teasing or just being cynical? Either way, she didn’t appreciate his approach to his patients or his coworkers.