Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 9)

by McKeehan, Vickie

  Abby Bonner brought over an offer for a free haircut from the Snip N Curl over objections from her sister, Janie, who still resented everyone because Flynn McCready had been arrested for trafficking meth.

  But Quentin wasn’t there to accept either of the gifts. Sydney had relieved him at six-thirty that morning so he could go home and get a few hours of sleep before he had to pick up Charlotte.

  Sydney was in the process of taking down all the Halloween decorations—getting rid of orange and black witches and replacing them with mini pumpkins and gourds, and tacking up the latest hand drawn pilgrims the kids at school had made, when the door flew open.

  Shelby Jennings rushed into the reception area carrying a wreath made from real maple leaves, mini pumpkins, and branches of cranberries. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here so early. But since Thanksgiving’s creeping up on us I thought you could use a more seasonal motif in here.”

  “That’s perfect for the front door.”

  “I thought so, too. You’re probably just now beginning to put out little fall treasures to make the office zing with a little pilgrim cheer. I love decorating with natural elements. And this time of year is my favorite. There are so many things to do like picking apples, making apple cider, and making pumpkin pies from scratch.”

  “From scratch?”

  “Every year.”

  “I’m impressed. I’m lucky if I bother to roast a turkey. Although I consider fall to be special. You get Halloween one month, Thanksgiving the next, and before you know it, it’s time for candy canes. Through the years, I’ve discovered the patients appreciate commemorating whatever holiday is coming up. Truth is, I get a real kick out of doing it.”

  “Oh, I see that. You have a knack. That’s why I brought you and Dr. Blackwood several things to spruce up the office, little touches like the wreath. I also have four containers of mums in the back of the car. You could set them around the waiting room and put one out on the counter.”

  “What a thoughtful thing to do,” Sydney said as she oohed and aahed over the intricate weave of the russet and gold leaves. “Did you make this?”

  “I put them together in the back of the warehouse. I love crafts of all kinds.”

  “I think I might put one of the mums in with River. She had her baby here last night.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. Boy or girl?”

  “Boy. Eli Marcus Cody.”

  “I’ll phone Drea as soon as I get back and have her bring over an arrangement in baby blue that suits a new mom. I also brought a little something special for Dr. Blackwood. To be honest, I peeked in at his office yesterday while he was treating Landon. I noticed how dreary that room looked. Very minimal décor, not even a picture on the wall. Anyway, I thought it needed a little pop of color, a little brightening up, so I brought a gift basket we stock at the store. These things usually sell out like hotcakes.”

  Sydney studied the three-foot tall arrangement filled with reddish mums and an assortment of apples and nuts on a pumpkin carved base. “That’s so sweet of you. You’re the first person to see that awful office and want to do something about it. He slept in that room last night, and will probably do so again on that uncomfortable sofa.”

  “We should do something about that. Let me get with Landon and Caleb and see if we can come up with a solution. Is Dr. Blackwood here yet?”

  “Not yet. He’s on his way. He had to stop and pick up a patient.”

  Shelby’s face morphed into a frown. “Hmm, I don’t remember Doc ever doing anything like that. Come to think of it, Doc usually kept such strict office hours, Belle made sure he was home on time every evening.”

  Sydney couldn’t debunk that statement. “I have a feeling Dr. Blackwood is nothing like Doc Prescott.”

  “I suppose not. Two different approaches to medicine, different mindsets. It makes me realize I’m grateful Dr. Blackwood picked here to settle. So many turned Doc down, you know. They wouldn’t make a change at this stage of their lives. Shame really. Now me, I’ve always believed that change is a wonderful thing. But it isn’t for everyone. Just look at the difference in Cooper these days. And Eastlyn. Landon and I are so glad those two found each other. Now if we can just fix Caleb up with someone.”

  Sydney held up her hands. “Don’t look at me.”

  “Oh honey, we’ll find you somebody special.” Shelby’s eyes lit up. “Is Dr. Blackwood involved with anyone back in Tahoe?”

  “Don’t even go there,” Sydney warned. “I’ve had my fill of doctors to last a lifetime. Not one of them is worth a long-term relationship. I’ve found most are incapable of staying faithful for more than six months at a time.”

  Shelby looked hard at Sydney. “Honey, it sounds like you’re making some extreme assumptions. Lumping all men, doctors in particular, into one big cheating mass is so unfair.” She leveled a finger toward the nurse. “How long have you had these trust issues?”

  “Since I made the mistake of dating doctors,” Sydney fired back.

  Shelby patted her hand. “Who am I to give advice? I’ve been with Landon so long I’m obviously out of the loop when it comes to relationship woes. Things are so much more complicated nowadays. You just keep hanging in there.”

  Shelby’s voice went silent when she saw Quentin push open the door and help Charlotte Dowling inside.

  After getting the frail woman settled into a chair, Quentin spotted Shelby. “How’d Landon handle the pain last night?”

  “He had a very restless evening. But I left him at home sleeping. In fact, I need to get back to check on him. Sydney will show you what I brought over. I’ll bring in the rest of the mums in and deliver whatever Drea comes up with for River.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” Quentin said.

  Shelby waved him off. “It’s just our way of letting you know how much we appreciate having you here. I hope it helps brighten up your digs.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Shelby put a hand on his arm. “Yes, we did. We’re grateful you’re here.”

  “What was that all about?” Quentin asked after Shelby had hurried out the door.

  Sydney gestured around the room. “Shelby’s not the only one who thinks it’s great that you’re here.” She told him about Perry and Abby dropping by. “And when the rest of the town hears that you’ve taken over for Doc, you’ll have so much stuff to eat you won’t have to rely on Belle’s lunches anymore.”

  “Really? I didn’t expect anything. I’ve been here four weeks and nothing.”

  “But now it’s official. Delivering a baby is a big deal.” Sydney went over to Charlotte. “How are you doing this morning?”

  “Tired. But I made it here, thanks to this one,” Charlotte said, pointing at Quentin.

  “Charlotte and I had to persuade Beckham to head off to school. He thought he should come to the clinic with her.”

  “Any excuse to miss school. Which wouldn’t have been a bad idea except that he might be failing geometry,” Charlotte added. “I’m afraid he’s way behind in his other classes, too. That’s my fault.”

  “First things first,” Quentin stated. “Let’s get you better and then we’ll zero in on Beckham’s grades. How’s that sound?”

  “Like a solid plan.”

  “Let’s get you into a wheelchair and we’ll take that x-ray,” Quentin said.

  Turning to Sydney, he tossed out instructions. “Start the IV drip and another shot of levofloxacin. Then we’ll be ready to do an ultrasound.”

  For the next three hours, the two worked on Charlotte around the other stream of patients who came in to complain about the usual seasonal ailments—coughs and colds, ragweed allergies, sinus infections.

  Their one exam room was like a revolving door. Quentin administered a flu shot to Myrtle Pettibone, who dropped off a batch of chocolate chip cookies as a “welcome to town” present. Prissie Gates brought in a dozen vanilla cupcakes, while Emma Colter had baked him an apple pie.

  “If you k
eep this up, ladies, I’ll gain twenty pounds before the end of the month. How am I supposed to eat all this food?”

  Myrtle had simply fired back with her usual sassy retort, “It’s what we do. You just remember to tell Ethel Jenkins you liked my recipe the best when she tries to pawn off those rock-hard things she calls cookies.”

  Later, Quentin would treat and bandage a deep cut on Wade Hawkins’s foot while the former history professor quizzed him about any paranormal sightings.

  “It’s okay to admit you’ve seen him,” Wade acknowledged. “Everyone has at one time or another. Scott Phillips is a part of the local legend around here. We’re already familiar with our resident celebrity.”

  “Is that right?” Quentin said absently. He wasn’t about to start his career here by letting on he believed in such outlandish things. Copping to a Scott sighting couldn’t possibly add to his patient load. He wanted people to accept him, not run for the hills laughing their asses off at the new squirrely doctor setting up shop.

  Wade squirmed on the exam table as the antiseptic soaked into the wound. “You have any questions about Scott, you come see me. Or better yet, pick up a copy of the book I wrote. Hayden stocks it in her bookstore. It should cover any issues you might have about dealing with him.”

  “I’ll do that first chance I get,” Quentin returned easily. “You know you’ll need a tetanus shot today, right? Your chart says you haven’t had one in almost five years.”

  “Just because I cut my foot on a piece of jagged glass? I’m healthy as a horse.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but I’m afraid the recommendation is a preventive tetanus.” With that, Quentin let Sydney fill up a syringe to do the honors while he looked in on River.

  “How’s the new mommy feel after getting a few hours’ sleep?”

  “Fine.”

  Quentin noted the troubled look on River’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Eli still hasn’t cried very much,” she pointed out. “I think something must be wrong with him.”

  “River, I’ve checked him out from top to bottom. This morning before I went home I drew his blood, sent it off to the lab along with the standard screenings, even completed the heel stick test. I listened to his heart for any abnormalities. He’s in perfect health.”

  “But why isn’t he crying more? I’m not a newbie here, Dr. Blackwood. Eli is my third. Luke and Seth cried a lot more than this when they were two days old. Something’s wrong.”

  Quentin patted her hand. “This stage is newborn. You’re fretting over nothing. There’s plenty of time for Eli to kick up a fuss after you get him home. Believe me, he’s doing fine. You’ll feel better when the results come back from the lab. Until then, sit back and enjoy little Eli’s good mood while it lasts.”

  His next patient looked as frail and elderly as Charlotte. Seventy-nine-year-old Reverend Whitcomb had spent the night wheezing. His wife, Dottie, had dragged her husband into the office to see Doc only to discover Doc was gone.

  “I think we should drive out to see Doc,” Dottie insisted. “He knows all about John David’s past medical problems.”

  It was Quentin’s job to assure Dottie he had everything he needed to make a diagnosis. “That’s probably why Jack did a superb job of making all the necessary notations in your husband’s chart so that I’d have the same up-to-date information on hand and be able to treat the problem. For example, I see here Mr. Whitcomb had a mild cardiac infarction last August where he was put on a small-dose aspirin regimen, a beta-blocker, an ACE inhibitor, and a statin. Are you still taking those meds, Mr. Whitcomb?”

  John David’s croaky voice sounded like it hurt to talk. “I am. Dottie here makes sure I do.”

  “So it’s the nasty cough that’s brought you here today?”

  “It’s so bad he can’t get any sleep,” Dottie piped up.

  Quentin picked up his stethoscope. “Let’s give your lungs a listen.” After checking the man’s breathing front and back, he asked, “Are you a smoker?”

  “Every so often I indulge in the occasional cigar.”

  Quentin picked up Whitcomb’s chart and began jotting down notes. “It seems you have acute bronchitis, an inflammation of the airways. I’m going to prescribe an effective cough medicine that should help. It should also make you drowsy enough to get some sleep. No more cigars for at least a week. If you don’t feel better in a couple of days, give me a call and we’ll try out a different approach.”

  Dottie sent Quentin a warm smile. “Just getting rid of those smelly cigars should help. It’s John David’s only vice, but it’s a biggie.”

  Quentin grinned back. “No way am I stepping into the middle of that discussion, except to say, smoking is bad for the lungs and airways, especially at your age. At some point, you could be looking at emphysema.”

  “Will we see you at church on Sunday?” Dottie asked, changing the subject and neatly boxing him in. “We’re having a fellowship luncheon right after. It’s our seasonal spread before Thanksgiving.”

  He opened his mouth to decline the invitation, but at the last moment said, “Sure. Why not? I could use a good sermon.”

  After all the patients had cleared out, Quentin sat down at his desk to catch up on his chart notations.

  Sydney stuck her head in the door. “The lab results came back on Sonnet Rafferty. It’s strep throat and not mono.”

  “Call Mr. Rafferty and let him know. Then remind him to fill that prescription I wrote yesterday for the antibiotic.”

  During lunch, Quentin went in to check on Charlotte and found Sydney sitting next to the old woman. Even though Charlotte was sleeping peacefully, Sydney had tears in her eyes.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Not good. Take a look at those x-rays. I left them up so you could see for yourself.”

  Quentin went over to the display. His heart dropped at what he saw. “That’s a huge mass. This didn’t happen overnight. She had to have been sick for a very long time. Did we get her lab work back yet?”

  Sydney pulled out Charlotte’s chart. “They sent me the white cell count. I jotted it down. We won’t get the full CBC until around three this afternoon.”

  Dismayed by the low number of leukocytes indicated, he was afraid he already knew what Charlotte had. “We should let her sleep.”

  “You’ll have to tell Beckham.”

  “Not until the lab confirms it. Even then we’ll do another round of tests. By the way, I don’t mind all the decorations you put up around the office, just don’t overdo it, okay? Let’s keep the Thanksgiving stuff to a minimum.”

  “What could you possibly have against a few pumpkins and festive chrysanthemums?”

  “They’re fine. But when you shift into Christmas mode, just don’t go overboard with the tinsel and all that red and green crap, okay? No need to plaster that stuff all over the walls.” He saw the fire glaze over in her eyes. She clearly felt differently. “Look, don’t make a big deal out of it. Now let’s grab some lunch while we can and consider Charlotte’s options.”

  Sydney gritted her teeth, anger bubbling up in her chest. But instead of spouting off, she swallowed her irritation. She got to her feet and followed him down the hallway to the kitchen. “Belle sent over chopped beef sandwiches.”

  Quentin grinned. “Belle doesn’t have to do that.”

  “It makes her happy.”

  “Maybe you could discreetly suggest to Belle that we can manage to make our own lunches.”

  Sydney had to bite her lip to keep from commenting. “And what should I tell all the little old ladies who’ve dropped by to bring you baked goods?”

  “I suppose it would be rude not to take them. Beckham and Charlotte could certainly benefit from the food.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Sydney said in agreement.

  They sat down at the table and unwrapped the sandwiches, but Quentin’s appetite had gone. “I’m surprised we’re seeing so many patients.”

  “You must’ve
noticed there’s an elderly population here aging fast,” Sydney explained. “One of the high school kids, Angela Baldwin, even wrote an essay about it last year, breaking down what portion of the town was over fifty. From there, her data even determined how many were in their seventies and eighties. Angela apparently put some long hours into research by going door to door and essentially obtaining her data right from the source.”

  “I’m surprised she got that kind of participation.”

  “You’ll come to realize that most folks around here are friendly and just like a chance to talk to their neighbors. What do we do about Charlotte? We can’t let her go back home.”

  “We make her as comfortable as possible for as long as we can. And if she wants to go back home, there’s not much we can do to stop her. If this is the type of cancer I suspect it is, Charlotte will never survive a bone marrow transplant or a stem cell procedure.”

  “You’re thinking lymphoma, aren’t you?”

  Quentin nodded. “And even with chemo, lymphoma is one of those aggressive cancers that tends to come back with a vengeance.”

  “My God, what will happen to Beckham?”

  The aching throb in his head had him rubbing both temples. “I don’t even want to think about that yet.”

  “We should ask her what she wants to do. Give her time to make plans.”

  Those last words bothered him through his afternoon schedule. It was a lot lighter than the morning’s load had been, giving him time to catch up on patient files and do some research into lymphoma. There were plenty of drugs out there to combat such a dire diagnosis, but they were usually administered before the cancer had a chance to spread to the central nervous system. Charlotte’s had already gone that far. He was certain it was too late to even give her methotrexate and have it perform fast enough.

  After considering all the options, he settled on a chemotherapy cocktail made up of cyclophosphamide, doxorubicin hydrochloride, vincristine, prednisolone, and rituximab.