by Irene Hannon
“Your daddy and I will be right here,” Cara assured her as she eased the little girl back.
Dale moved beside his daughter and took her hand, while Cara stroked her forehead. As Cara eyed the needle for the local anesthetic, which Sam kept discreetly out of sight, she sent him a look. Catching her glance this time, he raised an eyebrow in query.
“Maybe you could talk about what you’re doing while you’re working. That way, we’ll all know what’s going on,” Cara suggested in a conversational tone.
It was only the second time in their relationship that Cara had offered professional advice to Sam. But at the farmhouse, it had worked. And Sam’s response indicated he remembered that, too.
“By the way, Marv Jackson’s doing a lot better.”
A smile hovered at the corners of Cara’s lips. “I’m glad.”
“Okay, Jenna.” Sam turned his attention to his patient and smiled. “Before I sew up that nasty little cut, I’m going to numb your chin so you won’t feel anything when I work on it.”
“Like when I sit on my leg and it goes to sleep?”
“That’s right. But first I have to give you a couple of quick little pricks to put the skin to sleep, okay? Hold on to your daddy’s hand, and I’ll do this real fast.”
Following Cara’s lead, Sam talked Jenna through the process, leaving Cara free to observe his technique. In all their years of marriage, she’d never seen Sam work. Operating rooms were off-limits to nonessential personnel. While today’s procedure hardly qualified as major surgery, it did give her some insight into his skills. He worked with deft, sure strokes, compensating for his disability with amazing proficiency—and giving Cara a hint of the lifesaving talent Sam had once possessed in his hands.
True to his promise, Sam finished in a matter of minutes. As he sent Cara and Jenna to search the drawers in his receptionist’s desk for her stash of lollipops, Dale watched them disappear down the hallway.
“Cara has a real knack with kids,” he commented while Sam washed up.
“Yes. She does.” He hadn’t seen her with children very often, and he, too, had been struck by her ability to make an instant connection with Jenna. While he’d been too wrapped up in his career to let their inability to produce an offspring cause him much distress, the soft light in Cara’s eyes as she interacted with his young patient had given him a glimmer of what a great sadness and disappointment it had been for her.
“Listen, I’m sorry about my earlier question. You did a great job with Jenna.”
Turning back to Dale, Sam wiped his hands on a towel. “No problem. Considering how this looks—” he extended his scarred hand “—I expect I’d have had the same concerns if our situations were reversed. I’ll never do surgery again, but I can manage simpler procedures.”
For a long moment Dale studied him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and sincere. “I don’t know what caused that—” he nodded toward Sam’s hand “—but I do know that the people of Oak Hill are glad you’re here. It’s not easy to attract good doctors to small towns. We feel lucky to have you.” He extended his hand, and Sam took it in a firm grip, surprised by the unexpected emotion that clogged his throat at the sheriff’s heartfelt words.
“I picked a purple one, Daddy!” Jenna interrupted, holding up a lollipop. All trace of her fear had vanished.
“That looks good. Say thank you to Dr. Martin.”
The little girl gave him a shy look as she complied.
Dropping down to her level once again, Sam smiled. “No more falling off bikes, okay? We don’t want to do this again, do we?” She shook her head, and he rose to speak with Dale. “Bring her back in five or six days. In the meantime, change the bandage every day and put some of this cream on the cut.” He handed over a sample packet.
“Will do. Thanks again for meeting us on a Saturday.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Turning to Cara, Dale held out his hand. “Thank you, too. Your presence made a big difference.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
As they watched the father and daughter leave, Sam folded his arms across his chest as he regarded his wife. “This seems to be a day for saying thank you.”
“I was coming to town anyway. I didn’t mind dropping off the chart. Or staying with Jenna.” She picked up her purse, preparing to leave.
“I was referring more to the lesson in patient relations.”
His gratitude took her off guard, and she lifted one shoulder in a dismissive gesture, fiddling with her purse strap. “Medicine is routine for doctors, but it’s a mysterious thing for most patients. I think it helps subdue fears when doctors explain what’s being done, and why—whether the patient is a child or an adult.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Searching his face, Cara looked for some hint of sarcasm or arrogance but found none. “I wasn’t sure you’d be receptive to my suggestion,” she ventured.
That didn’t surprise Sam. He was well aware of the egotism and self-importance he’d exhibited in his old life. The hard truth was that while he may have excelled at surgery, he’d become less and less likable as the years went by. In the end, he’d had colleagues but few friends. He’d even alienated his wife with his conceit and pride.
Then had come his fall.
Dealing with his disintegrating marriage and career had been the most horrendous experience of his life. Yet good had come out of it, he acknowledged. He’d been forced to take a long, hard look at himself—and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen. If nothing else, he’d learned that he didn’t have all the answers. That he was as vulnerable to loss and uncertainty and insecurity as the next person. It had been a humbling experience.
And since coming to Oak Hill, he’d learned something else as well. He might have been a great surgeon, but he hadn’t been the best doctor. Doctors should treat the whole patient, not just the problem area. While he understood that principle at an intuitive level, he’d been struggling since his arrival in Oak Hill to put it into practice.
It had taken Cara’s visit, and her subtle suggestions, for him to begin to understand why he wasn’t as successful as he’d hoped. And to give him some much-needed direction about how to relate to his patients. He still had a long way to go, as today’s experience with Jenna proved. But at least Cara had provided a map for him to follow.
Now, as she stood across from him in his office, he wanted to tell her how much her presence meant to him. That it comforted him and gave him hope that all could be made right in the end. But if relating to his patients was difficult, sharing what was in his heart was even more of a challenge. Especially when he knew that in trying to pull her close, he could just as easily push her away if she wasn’t ready to listen. And since he wasn’t all that confident about his timing, fear kept him silent.
Realizing that he hadn’t responded to Cara’s comment, Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and drew an unsteady breath. “In my former life, I wouldn’t have been receptive to suggestions. But I’ve learned a thing or two in the past eighteen months. About humility and patience and priorities. And the importance of communication. I’ve got a ways to go on that one, but I’m working on it. Your visit has helped a lot.”
Soft color suffused her cheeks, and she played with the strap of her purse. “I haven’t done much.”
“More than you know.” His words hung in the air for a moment, then he changed the subject. “Did you say you’re off to see Marge?”
“Yes.” Relief eased her features. “Abby Warner is going to interview us for a feature story in the Gazette. After that, Marge and I are going to finalize our plans for opening night.”
“Reserve a table for me, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”
He watched her leave—though perhaps escape would be a better word, he mused. She had become uncomfortable when the conversation took a personal turn. He hadn’t pushed today, but soon he’d have to be a bit more assertive. Time was running out.
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br /> And while he wasn’t the most communicative guy around, he wasn’t about to let her walk away without telling her what was in his heart.
“I think that should wrap things up. If I have any more questions as I write the article, I’ll let you know.” Abby Warner closed her notebook and smiled at Cara and Marge as she tucked it in her tote bag.
“Thanks for giving us the coverage, Abby,” Marge said.
“Hey, a new restaurant in Oak Hill is big news. Especially when a chef like Cara is involved.” She rose and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“How’s everything going at the Gazette?” Marge inquired as they walked the editor to the door of the inn.
Cara watched, curious, as a shadow passed across Abby’s face, dimming the brightness in her eyes for a moment, much as a drifting cloud subdues the sunlight.
“We’re hanging in.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days about running an ad.”
“Thanks, Marge. We can never have too much ad revenue.” Abby turned to Cara and extended her hand. “Good luck with the restaurant. I know it will be a success.”
“Thank you. I’m afraid I won’t be here long enough to reap the fruits of our labors, but it’s been fun helping Marge get things rolling.”
“I’ll be sure to send over some extra copies of the paper next week, when this runs.”
“We’d appreciate that,” Marge said. “Take care, now.”
As Marge shut the door behind the editor, Cara gave the innkeeper a quizzical look. She liked the petite, serious woman who ran the local newspaper, but she’d picked up some troublesome vibes as they said their goodbyes.
“I don’t mean to pry, but it sounds like Abby has some sort of problem at the paper,” she ventured.
“She does. At least, I think she does,” Marge amended. “Abby’s been pretty closemouthed about it, but I get the feeling that the Gazette is facing some serious financial difficulties. It’s hard these days for small businesses to compete with the big conglomerates. But the Gazette is a family business, started by Abby’s great-grandfather, and she’s determined to carry on that tradition. I hope she succeeds.”
As Marge and Cara returned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on their plans for the opening weekend, Cara considered Marge’s comments. In the past couple of years—and the past few weeks, in particular—she’d been focused on her own problems to the exclusion of almost everything else.
But in recent days she’d been reminded that she wasn’t the only one dealing with serious personal issues. Marge had faced her own trauma, Abby appeared to be in a battle to retain her family business, the widowed sheriff was struggling to raise his young daughter alone and Sam was fighting to rebuild a shattered life and career.
No one, it seemed, was immune from problems.
Feeling suddenly selfish for bending God’s ear about only her issues, she sent a silent prayer heavenward on behalf of all of the Oak Hill residents who were in need of aid.
“How did it go with Marge today?” Sam cut into the sautéed chicken breast glazed with a lemon-butter sauce that Cara had prepared for Saturday dinner.
“Things are moving a lot faster than I expected. The extra tables, linens and place settings have already arrived. And she was excited about the sample menus I gave her today for the second and third weekends. She’s taking out an ad in the Gazette, in addition to the article they’re going to run, and plans to open next Thursday.”
“Is that feasible?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so, but she seems able to make things happen. I guess it’s easier to cut through red tape in a small town.”
Spearing a piece of broccoli, Sam smiled. “At least it is when Marge is in charge. So what did you think of my office?”
For a nanosecond, Cara’s fork hesitated halfway to her mouth. If Sam hadn’t been paying close attention, he would have missed that clue. And when she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, his antennae went all the way up. She’d always done that when she was unsure about bringing up a sticky subject. Such as their relationship. Or adopting a child.
“It looks as if it’s been redone in the recent past.”
Her noncommittal reply wasn’t lost on Sam. Seeking to put her at ease, he smiled and responded in a teasing tone. “That sounds like a diplomatic, discreet—and evasive—answer. It’s definitely a far cry from the sophisticated setup I had in Philadelphia.”
Cara frowned She’d never liked his high-tech, sleek surgical offices. Maybe they’d instilled confidence in his patients, but they’d left her cold. And she hadn’t intended to imply that she was comparing his new office to his old one.
“I like this office better.”
“But…”
“Did you have it redone when you came here?”
“Yes. I worked with an interior designer in Rolla. When I took over, the place was a 1940s time warp. It was like something out of…”
When he struggled to find an apt description, Cara supplied one. “Norman Rockwell?”
“Yes.”
“Is that bad?”
Now it was his turn to frown. “It was very dated.”
“But warm. And cozy. And comfortable. Right?”
“Are you suggesting I should have left it as it was?”
“Not at all. You aren’t Doc Adams, and your office should reflect your style and personality. I think the designer did a good job overall of bringing it into the twenty-first century. But the waiting room is a bit cold and impersonal. People are always nervous when they visit a doctor. The more you can do to alleviate their tension, the better the chance that they’ll relax and tell you what’s really bothering them.”
“What would you suggest?” Sam rested his elbows on the table and linked his fingers.
“You might consider putting some books and toys in one corner, for kids like Jenna. A couple of plants would help a lot, too. And adding a few lamps would soften the effect of the fluorescent lighting and provide a homey touch.”
As usual, Cara’s insight impressed him. She had a knack for knowing how to put others at ease, and he was sure that her ideas for the waiting room would achieve that goal.
But he was the main problem in that regard—not his decor. He couldn’t seem to bond with his patients. Oh, he treated their symptoms and cured the illnesses they brought to him as best he could. But he knew he wasn’t connecting at a deep enough level to inspire the kind of confidences that would allow him to treat the whole person, not just the problem that had brought them to the office that day.
At Sam’s sudden discouraged expression, Cara’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t intended to sound negative, not when she knew he was trying his best.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to be critical. I think you’ve done a great job creating a life here.”
Though her compliment warmed him, it didn’t change the facts.
“I appreciate that, Cara. But sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be a good family doctor. I just can’t seem to establish a rapport with my patients. They come in and give me a list of their symptoms, I ask the appropriate questions, and I send them home with a prescription or test order or referral. But I always feel as if some piece is missing.”
Setting her fork beside her plate, Cara took a sip of water. “Maybe it’s a matter of expanding your list of appropriate questions.”
“What do you mean?” He gave her a perplexed look.
“Well, when someone comes in and says their stomach hurts, what do you ask?”
“The usual. Did they eat anything out of the ordinary, are they running a temperature, where’s the pain, what kind of pain is it, do they have discomfort anywhere else…all the things that will help me pinpoint the source of their problem.”
“Those are all good medical questions, I’m sure. But do you ever ask them about what’s going on in their lives?”
“I try not to infringe on people’s privacy.”
“I agree that it’s imp
ortant not to overstep. But there’s a difference between being nosy and showing compassion and concern. Just because people are a bit reticent at first doesn’t mean they don’t want to talk. They might need a bit of coaxing…to be assured that the interest is real and not the equivalent of the ubiquitous ‘Have a nice day.’”
She leaned forward, intent. “Patients want to know doctors care about them as people, not just cases. That may not have been quite as important in surgery. But my opinion, for whatever it’s worth, is that it’s vital to your new specialty. I think the best family practitioners are sensitive to the mind as well as the body.”
It was difficult to argue with Cara’s advice. Yet he didn’t seem able to put it into practice. Sam averted his head as he responded. “I’m not sure I’m capable of that.”
In the instant before he turned away, Cara glimpsed his despair. She didn’t want to care about this man who had wounded her deeply, yet she couldn’t suppress the compassion that rose up inside her. No matter what had happened between them in the past, he was trying his best to build a better future for himself. How could she be less than encouraging?
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Am I?” He turned back to her, his expression despondent. “You, better than anyone, know how I’ve always struggled with communication. If I couldn’t relate to my own wife, how can I ever hope to relate to my patients?”
Glancing down, she toyed with her fork and spoke in a soft voice. “Our relationship wasn’t a priority for you at the end, Sam. If it had been, you’d have found a way to communicate, to share, like you did early in our marriage. I think your practice here is a priority. If you want to succeed, you will. You’re capable of communication, even if it isn’t a natural skill for you. You did it with me, once.”
The wistful quality in her voice took Cara by surprise. She hadn’t meant for her reply to come out sounding melancholy, and she hoped Sam hadn’t noticed. But a quick look confirmed he had. As did his next comment.
“I do recognize the importance of communication, Cara. And I have been working on it. I guess I’ll need to work harder until I get it right.”