by Ann Mcintosh
“Yes, Marion?”
“Dr. Warmington is here for you, Nurse Cory.”
What? David? Why?
Thankfully, professionalism was so deeply ingrained in her character she didn’t say the words aloud, even though they’d risen into her suddenly dry throat.
Knowing her silence was on the verge of becoming ridiculous, she said, “Send him in, please, Marion.”
David blew in through the door, giving Nychelle only a couple of moments to gather her wits and arrange her expression into a mildly surprised one.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, as soon as he was in her office. “I just finished a meeting with Dr. Hamatty.”
Her heart rate, which had jumped when she’d heard David’s name, ramped up a little more, but she kept her response to, “Oh? What’s going on?”
He glanced at his watch and, although she waved a hand toward the visitor’s chair on the other side of her desk, stayed on his feet.
“He’s requested that you and I handle an off-site intake. The patient flew in today by private jet from New York, and we need to meet with her, receive her records from the medical team who flew in with her, and do an evaluation.”
“Okay.” It was a little unusual, although not unheard of. Some of the patients Lauderlakes attracted were extremely wealthy, and demanded special attention. “Where are we seeing the patient and what time do we need to get there?”
David gave her the address, while looking at his watch again. “The medical team has to leave by four thirty to get back to the airport, and since I’m not that familiar with the area I think we should leave immediately. I can fill you in on the way there.”
The clipped tone and the way he hardly even glanced at her gave her the sense that whatever friendship they might have developed had evaporated. She wasn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved—wasn’t even sure what the achy feeling growing in her chest could be. So she ignored it, storing it away for later consideration. If he wanted a cool, professional relationship that was exactly what he’d get.
Nychelle turned the address over in her mind. “That’s in Las Olas. I know the way, so I may as well drive.” Without waiting for his reply, she added, “That way you can concentrate on bringing me up to speed on the patient without having to keep your eyes on the road.”
By the time she’d finished speaking she already had her phone in her hand and had dialed. David’s lips parted, but she held up one hand to forestall him when she heard Marion answer.
“Hey, I’m heading out for an off-site intake. If anyone asks, let them know I’ll be back in time for the committee meeting this evening.”
As she hung up the receiver David said, “I can drive and talk at the same time.”
At any other time the disgruntled tone would have made her smile. Just now, though, she felt anything but amused by him. She stood up and made tracks for the door, striding right past him without even a sideways look.
“No doubt—but I’m driving anyway.”
Then she walked out of the office without another word.
* * *
David didn’t bother to argue with Nychelle. He knew that expression all too well. It was the same bland, don’t-mess-with-me look his mother often got when she put her foot down about something. It was probably wisest not to complain—not even about Nychelle’s sedan being so small he was forced to push the passenger seat all the way back to get enough leg room. The atmosphere was frosty enough without risking another layer of ice being added.
It was what he’d aimed for, wasn’t it? This impersonal, professional distance? He knew that after that kiss they’d shared, and the erotic dreams he’d had about her since, dialing back their relationship was imperative. So why did he have this intense need to get back on friendly terms?
Nychelle drove the same way she did everything else—with smooth, calm competence. Turning out of the clinic parking lot, she went east for a while, and then turned south on Highway US1. She didn’t seem at all perturbed by the silence that had fallen between them, and David rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why it was bothering him so much.
He found himself searching for something to say—something that would make her smile, or at least start talking to him in that easy, cheerful way she had.
“I’m surprised you drive a stick shift.”
As the words left his mouth he had to swallow a groan of disgust. His comment bordered on insulting, and Nychelle seemed to think so too, if her response was anything to go by.
“I’m not sure why.” There was that cool, uninterested tone again. “Why don’t you tell me about the patient?”
The snub was deserved, although it made heat spread uncomfortably across his nape and up into his scalp.
Opening the small laptop, he cleared his throat, hoping to sound normal and professional—not to mention as cool as she did—while he spoke. “Twenty-year-old female, Carmen Fitzpatrick. Hemoglobin SS Sickle Cell Disease.”
“In crisis?”
“Had one—” David checked the notes “—four days ago. She’s a musician and was just coming off tour when the crisis occurred.”
“Ah. Now I realize why her name sounded familiar. That’s Carmie-K.”
Surprised, he looked over at her. “You know her?”
Nychelle shrugged. “Just her music. She sings a fusion of rap, reggae, blues and soul. It’s not bad, actually. And, before you ask why someone my age listens to her, Martin’s kids love her music, and, after hearing it first through them, I do too.”
He’d just gotten over his first round of embarrassment for the stick shift comment, and now she’d put him back on the spot.
“I’d never ask something like that.”
Good grief, he sounded defensive even to his own ears, and Nychelle just pursed her lips, her gaze firmly on the road and the traffic around them, her expression both skeptical and annoyed.
He was racking his brain for an appropriate follow-up comment—one that would get him out of the doghouse—when she asked, “Did Dr. H mention why she was here in Fort Lauderdale? I got the impression that she lives in New York City.”
While he was relieved at this return to business, David had to fight the urge to take the conversation back to a more personal level. He didn’t want her thinking of him as some condescending idiot, but keeping the conversation on the patient was probably a good idea.
“She bought a house here a while back and planned to move here after the tour. I get the impression her hematologist in New York wasn’t too happy about her making the trip, but she was determined.”
Nychelle checked her rearview mirror before changing lanes. “Does she have a hematologist lined up here?”
“Yes. Dr. Yuen at Broward Health.”
“And Lauderlakes is to be her primary health provider.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “Will she come in to the clinic after this, when she’s feeling better, or will she want house calls going forward?”
“I don’t know. That’s something we’ll have to discuss with her.”
Nychelle had turned off US1 onto Las Olas Boulevard a while back. They’d passed a high-end commercial area, then gone over a bridge, and now she navigated a construction zone.
“She’s notoriously private,” she said in a thoughtful tone. “Leighann, Martin’s daughter, is obsessed with Carmie-K but she’s never said anything about her having sickle cell disease, so I don’t think it’s common knowledge. It would explain why she bought a house here, rather than in South Beach or Miami. Less chance of being stalked by the paparazzi.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.” He was watching her profile, enjoying the opportunity to do so without it seeming weird. “Paparazzi are as far outside of my experience as traveling into space.”
“Mine too, but I guess Carmie has to think about things like that. Remind me of the address.”
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She slowed down, and after reading it out to her David turned his attention to where they were going. One of the myriad canals that crisscrossed the city was on their left, and on their right were large houses, just visible behind high fences and verdant vegetation.
“Nice area,” he said.
The houses were on what seemed to be a series of manmade peninsulas, separated by canals. Looking along the canals, he could see the backs of mansions with neat lawns flowing down to the water. Berthed behind most of the houses were boats of varying sizes—none of them dinghies, by any means.
“I didn’t know this was here, but I haven’t spent much time exploring the city.”
“My parents live just down there.”
She pointed to the road they were going past, and David looked. More mansions.
“Is it just the two of them?” Considering her parents’ positions, he shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. Part of him still found it difficult to reconcile what people had in comparison to what they needed. “Not to be rude, but I don’t see any small homes around here. Isn’t it a lot of house for just two?”
“Yep.”
She sent him a sideways glance, and he thought there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. Seeing it made his neck and shoulder muscles suddenly relax, although he hadn’t been aware of how tight they’d become.
“It’s rather wasted on them—especially since neither of my parents like the sea, so they don’t own a boat.” She chuckled. “Not that you have to have a boat when you live on the water, but it makes sense. No, that house is a showplace for visitors and a giant, fancy peapod for the two of them to rattle around in.”
She’d turned onto one of the roads off Las Olas, and they both started looking at the house numbers to figure out which house they were going to.
“I think it’s all the way at the end,” she said. “That’s where the biggest lots are. They were told we were coming?”
“Yes.”
She’d been right about where the house was located. Once there, they were faced with a tall stucco wall with bougainvillea trailing over the top and an ornate metal gate. Pulling up close to a freestanding post with a speaker imbedded into it, Nychelle wound down her window and pressed the intercom button. When she told the man who answered who they were, the gate immediately began opening.
“Please follow the driveway to the right,” the disembodied voice instructed. “Someone will meet you at the car park.”
“Thank you,” Nychelle called out, putting the car back into gear.
It was time to deal with their patient, but David resented the end of the trip. Despite Nychelle’s initially cool attitude he’d enjoyed her company, as always, and they’d gotten back on a friendly footing. He didn’t want that to fade away.
“By the way, your cousin Martin invited me to go out with him and his family next weekend.”
Nychelle flicked him a sideways glance, then veered the car to the right, as instructed, and followed a brick-paved drive around the side of the huge Spanish-style house.
“They’re lots of fun,” she replied. “You should go.”
Rounding the corner, she passed a fountain in the center of a wide paved area. Parking the car next to a high-end SUV, she turned off the ignition.
“Are you invited too?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light, although the tightness was back in his shoulders. “I mean, I hardly know Martin, so I figured he’d ask you to come along as well.”
Swinging her legs out of the car, she replied, “Nope—and you’ll be fine without me.”
As he reached for his bag on the back seat David had to stop himself from arguing. And the fact he was supposed to be keeping his distance did nothing to alleviate his dissatisfaction when he thought about going without her.
CHAPTER NINE
CARMEN FITZPATRICK WAS as petite and pretty as she appeared on her album covers, but her café au lait skin was sallow, and a pair of wrinkles marred the spot between her eyebrows.
At first Nychelle thought the young woman was still in pain from her sickle cell crisis, but she soon realized at least part of her scowl was anger.
“I don’t know what the fuss is all about,” she said, as soon as David and Nychelle had been introduced. “Having you around is just a waste of time and money. I’ve been dealing with this since I was a child.”
“Just stop your squawking.” Milo LaMar, the man who’d met them outside and introduced himself as Carmen’s manager, lowered himself onto one of the couches in the massive room and gave his artiste a glare. “You wanted to come down here, so we came. Making sure your health doesn’t suffer because of the decision isn’t a waste of anything.”
Carmen snorted, matching his glower with a dagger stare from her dark, flashing eyes. “You’re like an old woman, Milo. I’m fine.”
They’d already received her medical records from the young doctor who’d flown in with her, and David had scanned them. Nychelle hung back slightly, letting him take the lead.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick, I’m glad you’re feeling better, but your manager has a point.” The young woman looked set to argue, but David smiled and held up his hand, forestalling her. “Most people recovering from a crisis wouldn’t be traveling, much less going someplace where they don’t already have a support system. We’re here to make sure that whatever happens while you’re in Florida will be dealt with as efficiently as it would be had you stayed in New York.”
Carmen gave him a defiant look out of the corner of her eye. “I know what to do if a crisis comes on. I’m telling you—this isn’t anything new to me.”
“But living here is.”
Nychelle liked the calm way David spoke: frankly, and not talking down to the patient.
Carmen gave a little head-toss. “I just need some peace and quiet. It’s been a long few months. I just want to stay in one place for a while—preferably with no one coming by or wanting anything.”
“Okay.” David infused a little laughter into his voice. “We can take a hint, can’t we, Nurse Cory? We’ll get out of your hair as soon as we’ve given you a quick examination.”
“We’ll be gone in a flash,” Nychelle agreed, handing David the medical bag. “Mr. LaMar, if you’d excuse us?”
Milo heaved his considerable bulk out of the sofa, then pointed a finger at Carmen. “Be nice. They’re here to help you.”
Carmen’s rapid-fire spate of Spanish had Nychelle biting the inside of her lip to suppress slightly shocked laughter. The singer certainly knew how to get her point across in a colorful way, and Nychelle made sure not to look at David, in case his expression set her off.
Milo LaMar had warned them Carmen was feeling out of sorts—“Just not herself since this last crisis,” was the way he’d put it—and Nychelle made sure to pay special attention to the younger woman’s sullen mood.
When David started asking her about her condition, Carmen lost control.
“Yes, I’ve been taking my hydroxyurea. And, yes, it’s been working fine.” She was almost shouting, tears making her eyes gleam. “I told you—I’ve been dealing with this for most of my life. I don’t need a pep talk or you going over everything all over again.”
“So what’s different this time?”
David’s quiet question cut through her tirade and Carmen sank back into the corner of the couch, turning her head away.
“Nothing. Nothing’s different. It’s just the same life-interrupting garbage I’ve had to deal with all along.”
“So why are you so upset this time?”
The silence stretched between them and Nychelle found herself holding her breath, almost afraid to move in case it stopped the young woman from opening up.
“Life was going so well.” It was a whisper. “It had been almost two years since I had a crisis. The tour was great. I finally had someone I was interested in...”<
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Her voice faded, and Nychelle felt her heart contract in sympathy.
“He couldn’t handle seeing you in the midst of the crisis?”
“It wasn’t that... Oh, forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”
Nychelle took a chance, and sat down next to Carmen. “Maybe I would,” she said quietly. “You didn’t tell him about the sickle cell, did you?”
Carmen drew in a shuddering breath. “No. I don’t tell anyone I don’t think has to know. I never wanted anyone to say, Oh, there’s that Carmie-K—the chick with the sickle cell disease. I never wanted to have people thinking about that instead of my music. Besides, we weren’t really serious yet. Just getting to know each other.”
“I get it,” Nychelle said softly. “I really do.”
Carmen whipped her head around to give her a glare. “How could you? You don’t have it, do you?”
“No.” Nychelle shook her head. “I don’t. But I do have a condition I’d need any man I’m thinking of having a long-term serious relationship with to know about. The question becomes when do I tell him? It’s not a first date conversation. Not even second or third. It’s something I wouldn’t want anyone I’m not planning a future with to know. So, then I have to figure out when’s the best time? And sometimes it’s easier to just forget about it.”
“Yeah.” Carmen nodded, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Yeah, exactly.” She sighed. “I haven’t had time for guys or relationships before, so it never came up. Then I was feeling so well that everything else other than the SCD just kind of became more important. I didn’t have to think about it—like you said, just take my meds and go on with life. Then...”
Nychelle touched Carmen’s hand—just a fleeting contact on the young woman’s tightly fisted fingers. “Then the disease butted in, when it was least wanted?”
Finding the right words was difficult, but there was no way to sugarcoat the situation, and she doubted Carmen would appreciate it if she tried.
Drawing on her own experience, she said, “It’s never going to be easy—but you know that already, and you have to live your life the way you want to. That includes what you keep private and what you share with others. It’s tough for you, because you’re in the public eye, and I really don’t have any advice on how you should deal with that.”