Saved by Doctor Dreamy

by Dianne Drake

  In person, and in very good form, he thought. “Then you’re applying for a position?” Frankly, she wasn’t what he’d expected. Rather, he’d expected someone like George Perkins, a doctor who was in the middle of a career burnout, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

  “Only part-time. I can give you my weekends, if you need me.”

  “Weekends are good. But what are you? I mean, am I hiring a nurse, a respiratory therapist or what?”

  “A physician. I’m a family practice doctor. Directed a hospital practice back in Indiana.”

  “But you’re here now, asking me for work?” From director of a hospital practice to this? It didn’t make sense. “And you only want a couple days a week?”

  “That’s all I have free. The rest of my time goes to recruiting medical personnel to come to Costa Rica.”

  Now it was beginning to make some sense. She aided one of the country’s fastest growing industries in her real life and wanted to be a do-gooder in her off time. Well, if the do-gooder had the skills, he’d take them for those two days. The rest of her time didn’t matter to him in the least. “You can provide references?” he asked, not that he cared much to have a look at them, but the question seemed like the right one to ask.

  “Whatever you need to see.”

  “And you understand the conditions here? And the fact that I might not have enough money left over in my budget to pay you all the time—or ever?”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  Yep. She was definitely a do-gooder. “So what’s it about, Juliette?”

  “I like patient care, and I don’t get to do that in my current position. I guess you can say I’m just trying to get back to where I started.”

  Well, that was as good a reason as any. And, in spite of himself, he liked her. Liked her no-nonsense attitude. “So, if I hire you, when can you start?”

  “I’m here now, and I don’t have to be back at my other job until Monday. I packed a bag, just in case I stayed, so I’m ready to work whenever you want me to start.”

  “How about now? I have some beds that need changing and a nurse who’s doing that but who has other things to do. So, can you change a bed, Juliette?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  COULD SHE CHANGE a bed? Sad to say, she hadn’t made very many beds in her life. Back home, she and her dad had a housekeeper who did that for them. Twice a week, fresh sheets on every bed in the house, whether or not the bed had been slept on. At her dad’s insistence. Oh, and brand-new linens ordered from the finest catalogs once every few months.

  That was her life then, all of it courtesy of a very generous and doting father, and she’d found nothing extraordinary about it as it had been everything she’d grown used to. Her dad had always told her it was his duty to spoil her, and she’d believed that. Now, today, living in San José, and in keeping with what she was accustomed to, she and Cynthia rented a flat that came with limited maid service. It cost them more to secure that particular amenity in their living quarters, but having someone else do the everyday chores was well worth the extra money. So, at thirty-three, Juliette was a novice at this, and pretty much every other domestic skill most people her age had long since acquired. But how difficult could it be to change a silly bed? She was smart, and capable. And if she could cure illnesses, she could surely slap a sheet onto the bed.

  Easier said than done, Juliette discovered after she’d stripped the first bed, then laid a clean sheet on top of it. Tuck in the edges, fold under the corners, make sure there were no wrinkles—

  She struggled through her mental procedural list, thought she was doing a fairly good job of it, all things considered. That was, until she noticed the sizable wrinkle that sprang up in the middle of the bed and crept all the way to the right side. How had that gotten there? she wondered as she tugged at the sheet from the opposite side, trying to smooth it out and, in effect, making the darned thing even worse.

  “That could be uncomfortable, if you’re the one who has to sleep on it,” Damien commented from the end of the bed, where he was standing, arms folded across his chest, watching her struggle. “Causes creases in the skin if you lay on it too long.”

  “I intend to straighten it out. Maybe remake the bed.” Actually, that was a lie. Her real intent was still to pat it down as much as she could, then move on to the next bed and hope the future occupant of this particular bed didn’t have a problem with wrinkles.

  “You know you’ve been working on this first bed for ten minutes now? Alegria would have had all five beds changed in that amount of time, and been halfway through giving a patient a bed bath. So what’s holding you up? Because I have other things for you to do if you ever get done here.”

  “This is taking a little longer because I’m used to fitted sheets,” she said defensively. Her response didn’t make any sense, not to her, probably not to Damien, but it was the best she could come up with, other than the truth, which was that she just didn’t do beds. How lame would that sound? Top-notch doctor felled by a simple bedsheet.

  “Fitted sheets—nope, no such luxuries around here. In fact, our sheets are all donations from some of the locals. Used bedsheets, Juliette. The very best we have to offer. Rough-texture, well-worn hand-me-downs. But I’ll bet you’re used to a nice silk, or even an Egyptian cotton, maybe a fifteen-hundred thread count? You know, the very best the market has to offer.”

  Who would have guessed Damien knew sheets? But, apparently, he did. And, amazingly, what he’d described was exactly what she had on her bed back home. Nice, soft, dreadfully expensive sheets covering a huge Victorian, dark cherrywood, four-poster antique of a bed. Her bed and sheets—luxuries she’d thought she couldn’t live without until she’d come to Costa Rica, where such luxuries were scarce, and only for those who could afford to have them imported. Which her father would do for her, gladly, if she asked him. Although she’d never ask, as that would build up his hopes that she was already getting tired of her life in Costa Rica and wanted her old life back. Back home. Same as before. Returning to her old job. Taking the position as her father’s chief administrative officer. Yes, that was the way his mind would run through it, all because she wanted better bedsheets.

  OK, so she was a bit spoiled. She’d admit it if anyone—Damien—cared to ask but, since he wasn’t asking, she wasn’t telling. Not a blessed thing! “The sheet you’re describing would have cost a hundred and twenty times more than all the sheets in this ward put together. And that would be just one sheet.”

  “Ah! A lady with a passion for sheets.” Damien arched mocking eyebrows. “I hope that same passion extends to your medicine.”

  “You mean a lady doctor who’s being interrupted while she’s trying to do her job.” She regarded him for a moment. Well-muscled body. Three or four days’ growth of stubble on his face. Over-the-collar hair, which he’d pulled back into a ponytail, not too unlike her own, only much, much shorter. Really nice dimples when he smiled. Sexy dimples. Kissable dimples... Juliette shook her head to clear the train wreck going on inside and went back to assessing her overall opinion of Damien Caldwell. He was stunningly handsome, which he probably knew, and probably used it to his advantage. Insufferably rude. Intelligent. Good doctor.

  “Does it bother you that I’m watching?” he asked.

  “What bothers me is that you think you know all about me through my bedsheets. You’re judging me, aren’t you? You know, poor little rich girl. Never changed a bedsheet in her life. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” Judging her based on what she owned and not what she could do as a doctor.

  “I wasn’t but, now that you brought it up, I could. Especially if you do own Egyptian cotton.”

  “What I do or do not own has no bearing on the job here. And if you want to stand there speculating on something as unimportant as my sheets, be my guest. Spe
culate to your heart’s content. But keep it to yourself because I need to get these beds changed and I don’t need any distractions while I’m doing it.”

  The ad she’d read about this job should have warned her that it came with a pompous boss because he was, indeed, pompous. Full of himself. Someone who probably took delight in the struggles of others. “And in the meantime I’m going to smooth this stupid wrinkle so I can get on to the next bed.”

  “Well, if you ever get done here, I’ve got a patient coming into the clinic in a little while who has a possible case of gout in his left big toe. Could you take a look at him when he arrives?”

  Gout. A painful inflammatory process, starting in the big toe in about half of all diagnosed cases. “I don’t suppose we can test for hyperuricemia, can we?” Hyperuricemia was a build-up of uric acid in the blood. With elevated levels, its presence could precipitate an onset of gout.

  “Nope. Haven’t got the proper equipment to do much more than a simple CBC.” Complete blood count. “And we do those sparingly because they cost us money we don’t have.”

  “Then how do we diagnose him, or anybody else, for that matter, if we don’t have the tests at our disposal?”

  “The old-fashioned way. We apply common sense. In this particular case, you assess to see if it’s swollen or red. You ask him if it hurts, then find out how and when. Also, you take into account the fact that the patient’s a male, and we all know that men are more susceptible to gout than women. So that’s another indicator. And the pain exists only in his big toe. Add it all up and you’ve got...gout.” He took a big sweeping bow with his pronouncement, as if he was the lead character in a show on Broadway.

  Juliette noticed his grand gesture, but chose to ignore it. “OK, it’s gout. I’ll probably agree with you once I’ve had a look at him. But, apart from that, what kind of drugs do you have on hand to treat him with? Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories? Steroids? Colchicine? Maybe allopurinol?”

  “Aspirin,” he stated flatly.

  “Aspirin? That’s it?” Understaffed, understocked—what kind of place was this?

  “We’re limited here to the basics and that’s pretty much how we have to conduct business every day. We start on the most simple level we can offer and hope that’s good enough.”

  “What else do you have besides aspirin?”

  “Antacids, penicillin, a lot of different topical ointments for bug bites, rashes and whatever else happens to a person’s skin. A couple of different kinds of injectable anesthetic agents. Nitroglycerine. Cough syrup. Some antimicrobials. Antimalarials—mostly quinidine. A very small supply of codeine. Oh, and a handful of various other drugs that we can coerce from an occasional outsider who wanders through. When you have time, take a look. We keep the drugs in the locked closet just outside the clinic door.”

  “Are any of these expired drugs?”

  “Hey, we take what we can get. So if it’s not too expired, we accept it and, believe me, we’re glad to get it. One person’s expired drug may be another person’s salvation.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  He shook his head. “I check with the pharmaceutical company before I use it. I mean, commercial expiration date is one thing, but some drugs have usable life left beyond their shelf life.”

  “But you do turn away some drugs that are expired?”

  “Of course I do. I’m not going to put a patient at risk with an expired drug that’s not usable.”

  “So when you call these pharmaceutical companies, don’t they offer to stock you with new drugs?”

  “All the time. But who the hell can afford that around here?” Damien shrugged. “Like I say, I check it to make sure it’s safe, then I use it if it is, and thank my lucky stars I have it to use.”

  She hadn’t expected anything lavish, but she also hadn’t expected this much impoverishment. Of course, she knew little clinics like this operated all over the world, barely keeping their doors open, scraping and bowing to get whatever they had. But, in her other life, those were only stories, not a real situation as it applied to her. Now, though, she was in the heart of make-do medicine and nothing in her education or experience had taught her how to get along within its confines.

  “How do you learn to get by the way you do?” she asked Damien. “With all these limitations and hardships?”

  He studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Most of it you simply make up as you go. I was a general surgeon in Seattle. Worked in one of the largest hospitals in the city—a teaching hospital. So I had residents and medical students at my disposal, every piece of modern equipment known to the medical world, my OR was second to none.”

  “And you gave it all up for this?” It was an admirable thing to do, but the question that plagued her about that was how anyone could go from so modern to so primitive? She’d done a little internet research on Damien before she’d come here, and he had a sterling reputation. He’d received all kinds of recognition for his achievements in surgery, and he’d won awards. So what made a person trade it for a handful of expired medicines and good guesses instead of proper tests and up-to-date drugs?

  Maybe he had a father who ran the hospital, Juliette thought, as her own reasons for leaving her hospital practice crossed her mind.

  “This isn’t so bad once you get used to it,” he said.

  “But how do you get used to it? Especially when it’s so completely different from your medical background?”

  “You look at the people you’re treating and understand that they need and deserve the best care you can give them, just the way that patients in any hospital anywhere else do. Only out here you’re the only one to do it. I think that’s the hardest part to get used to—the fact that there’s no one else to fall back on. No equipment, no tests or drugs, no excuses...

  “It scared me when I first got here until I came to terms with how I was going to have to rely on myself and all my skills and knowledge. That didn’t make working in this hospital any easier, but it did put things into proper perspective.”

  “You’ve gotten used to it, haven’t you?”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve learned to work with the knowledge that the best I can hope for is what I have on hand at the moment, and the people here who want medical help are grateful for whatever I have to offer. They don’t take it for granted the way society in general has come to take much of its medical care for granted. So, once you understand that, you can get used to just about anything this type of practice will hand you.”

  “Then you don’t really look forward, do you?”

  “Can’t afford to. If I did, I’d probably get really disappointed, because anything forward from this point is the same as anything looking backward. Nothing changes and, in practical terms, it probably never will.”

  “But you chose a jungle practice over what you had for some reason. Was it a conscious choice, or did you come here with expectation of one thing and get handed something else?”

  “I got recruited to one of the leading hospitals by someone like you. They wanted my surgical skills and they came up with a pretty nice package to offer me. Since I’ve never stayed in any one position too long—”

  “Why not?” she interrupted.

  “Because there’s always something else out there. Something I haven’t tried yet. Something that might be better than what I’ve had.” Something to distract him from the fact that he’d never found what he wanted.

  “In other words, you’re never contented?”

  “In other words, I like to change up my life every now and then. Which is why I came here to Costa Rica. The country is recruiting doctors, the whole medical industry is competing in a worldwide arena and it sounded exciting. Probably like it did to you when they came calling on you. And I’m assuming they did come calling.”

  “Something like that.”
But her motive in coming here wasn’t because she was restless, or that she simply needed a change in pace. Her acceptance came because she needed to expand herself in new directions. Someplace far, far away from her father.

  “Well, anyway—they did a hard recruit on me. Kept coming back for about a year, until I finally decided to give it a shot.”

  “So you did work in one of the hospitals in San José?”

  “For about a month. The timing was perfect. I’d just ended a personal relationship, which made me restless to go someplace, do something else. You know, running away. Which actually has been my habit for most of my adult life.” Damien grinned. “Anyway, they offered, eventually I accepted, and it took me about a week to figure out I hated it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was just like what I’d left. Brought back old memories of my last hospital, of how my former fiancée thought I should be more than a general surgeon, of how my future father-in-law said that being a general surgeon was so working class. Like there’s something wrong with being working class! I’d always loved working for a living but that one criticism so totally changed me, there were times I didn’t even recognize myself. Tried to be what my future family considered their equal. Put on airs I didn’t have a right to. Drowned myself in a lifestyle that I didn’t like, just to play the perfect part.” He shook his head. “I really needed something different after I got through all that. Got it all sorted—who I really was, what I really wanted to do with my life. So one day I saw an ad where a little jungle hospital needed a doctor...”

  “Like the ad you placed?” He had so much baggage in his past, she wondered how he’d gotten past it to reach this point in his life. It took a lot of strength to get from where he used to be to where he was now. A strength she wished she had for herself.

  Damien chuckled. “The same ad.”

  “The exact same ad?” she asked him.

  “One and the same. No pay, hard work, long hours. Nothing like I’d ever been involved with before. So, since I’d come to Costa Rica seeking a new adventure—hell, what’s more of an adventure than this?”