The Promise. Робин Карр
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Wedding guests. The woman was a pretty blonde, carrying her heeled slippers, and he was a tall man with dark red hair and kept his arm around her waist. They walked about twenty feet and stopped. He lifted her chin and kissed her deeply.
That was hard to see, Peyton thought. Fresh from her breakup, it wasn’t easy. She wanted to be loved; she was willing to give a lot to a relationship. She had tried so hard.
* * *
On Sunday, before she was completely settled in Thunder Point, Peyton called a friend from Ted’s office—their triage nurse, Amy. She hadn’t talked to her since her abrupt departure three weeks before, and Amy had been her closest work friend.
“I’m taking a position in a very small clinic in a very small town. It will give me time to think about my next job. I made a three month commitment, and during the next three months, I’ll put out some feelers, try to decide where I want to be. It isn’t going to be in Portland, Amy. I don’t want to run into Ted and his new assistant.”
“You should know—they came out. They’re a couple. It’s all huggy-huggy, kissy-touchy. They’re officially dating.”
Peyton sighed. “It’s like they couldn’t wait for me to leave.”
“You were gone an hour,” Amy said, disgust in her voice.
“He’s twenty years older than she is.”
“He needs a babysitter,” Amy said. “In the end he might need a sitter for her. My advice? Don’t look back.”
Peyton texted Ted and told him she had not yet seen the severance check and gave him the address for Scott’s clinic and asked him to send it there. Posthaste. She didn’t need it, but by damn, she was going to push for it. No one had given Ted more than she had. Fortunately, she had saved enough of her income over the past several years to emerge debt free and with a healthy savings account. She could get on with her life.
Alone.
* * *
Monday morning at around ten, Peyton dropped by the clinic. She hadn’t given Scott a starting date, but she had nothing to do to settle into her little space, so she might as well see if he needed her. She had noticed Devon wore scrubs and tennis shoes, perfectly appropriate for clinic personnel. But Scott had been wearing jeans, so she opted for nice jeans and a starched blouse. While it was definitely sandal weather, she wore closed-toed shoes with a heel. She’d soon find out if scrubs were more practical.
“I wasn’t expecting you until next week,” he said.
“I know, but Devon called and said she’d be away and if I could spare the time...”
“I can manage if you have things to do, Peyton,” he said.
She really didn’t want him to know how pathetic her life looked, that she had almost nothing to move into her little duplex. “I’m fine. There’s not much to do to get acclimated, and I wanted to give you at least a few hours today in case you got busy.”
“If you’re sure, we’ll think of it as orientation. It won’t take any time at all before you know where everything is. Over the weekend I made room for you in my office. You can use my desk whenever I’m not using it, but I added a small, portable but very sturdy folding table and desk chair and brought a laptop from home in case—”
“I have my own laptop,” she said. “Do you have wireless so I can get online? Ten years ago I carted around boxes of books but now...”
“I know. We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? I subscribe to a medical link service. I’ll give you the password. Everything from a Physician’s Desk Reference to very classy pictures of rashes and warts.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “See a lot of those, do you?”
“It’s not that there are a lot. I have trouble telling them all apart! There’s a white lab coat in the back if you want to save your blouse from...from the many vagaries of our profession.”
Orientation was comprised of more than learning Scott’s system, where the supplies were kept and figuring out the appointment calendar. It was also meeting the people. In a small-town clinic, she learned, you served the neighborhood. There was Mrs. Rodriquez’s diabetes, Lynn Bishop’s prenatal visits, Bob Flannigan’s arthritis, Crawford Downy Sr.’s high blood pressure and elevated cholesterol, and his wife’s onset of acid reflux. There was Mrs. Bledsoe’s Parkinson’s—beautifully controlled at the moment, Tara Redding’s asthma, Frank Samson’s chronic back spasms, a strained and perhaps torn rotator cuff from one of the fishermen down at the marina, a few referrals and a couple of blood draws. The clinic was busy all day, and whether Scott would admit it or not, Peyton knew he would have had trouble keeping up without her. For the two of them, it wasn’t overwhelming, but there was no downtime. She administered some antibiotic, put in a few stitches, applied an ice pack and caught up on some charting. She thought she was home free until the nine-month-old with a fever she had balanced on her hip threw up on her.
“Feel better?” she asked the infant.
The baby flashed a wide, adorable, toothless smile, causing Scott to laugh so hard, he bent over.
“I keep a couple of spare shirts in my closet,” Scott said, still laughing. “I’ll get you one.”
Peyton finished the day in Scott’s shirt, but it had been such a good day that she didn’t mind a bit. With hardly any training at all, they had worked together exceptionally well. “I guess I’ll either wear the lab coat or add a couple of my own shirts to the closet,” she said.
“Choice of clothing is entirely up to you. Devon likes the scrubs for comfort, and it keeps her costs down. Some days I just throw on scrubs, but those are usually the days I’m scheduled at one of the hospitals. I don’t have many patients to see on rounds, but if I can give them a few hours in their clinic or ER, it helps.”
“They let you have a schedule that gives them just a few hours?”
“It’s all I have,” he said. “Plus, I’m pretty cheap.” And then he grinned.
She was caught on that smile, momentarily mesmerized. There was no veneer, no cover. He was completely accessible, maybe a little vulnerable. On that very first day she understood. He’s not about money or image; he’s all about being a good health care provider. That’s all it took—one day and that engaging smile and she knew, Scott was the real deal. A good man. Good to the bone. He was welcoming. Warm and giving and talented. And that was why the clinic was working. His patients clearly loved and trusted him. They depended on him thoroughly; they dropped in whether ill or well, just to update him on the latest news, and not just about their health.
Realizing this was almost a blow, given where she came from. Ted was the kind of man who could knock you off your feet, reel you in, get you to do anything he asked. Ted had articles written about him; he contributed on television medical news stories. Scott wanted to take care of his people. He was more embracing, anxious to give you something you needed. Ted was a Lamborghini; Scott was a Jeep. Ted was all flash, while Scott was unpretentious and solid. There was no hidden agenda here. And while she might’ve started the day thinking it was a three-month gig to give her a chance to live simply and get her head together, she quickly saw it as a good idea, an opportunity to learn about small-town medicine from a master. And the other shock was she found the Jeep far sexier than the Lamborghini.
Her second day in the clinic was much the same as the first, busy all day, and she already felt at home.
“It might go a little easier on me if you weren’t so damn efficient and personable,” Scott said. “If you were klutzy, lazy and annoying, I wouldn’t mind giving you up in three months.”
She laughed at him and said, “There’s another reason I can’t stay longer,” she said. “It’s not just the money, although you have to admit...”
“I’ll be the first to admit it’s not nearly what you deserve,” he said. “It’s just what