Judy Duarte: Under The Mistletoe With John Doe

Well, whatever “himself” meant.

So he said, “Sure, I’ll take one. What’ve you got?”

She wheeled a small cart into his room, and he scanned the offerings: Ladies’ Home Journal, Psychology Today, People, Field & Stream…

Golf Digest? For some reason, that particular periodical, with a head shot of Phil Mickelson on the cover, seemed to be the most appealing in the stack, so he took it.

When the candy striper left the room, he began to thumb through the pages, wondering if he’d been a golfer before the mugging.

If so, did he play regularly? Or had he just taken up the sport?

That answer, like all the others he’d been asking himself over the past two days, evaded him.

He had, of course, picked up a few clues to his identity. He knew the USC fight song, had an appreciation for college football and didn’t much care for poached eggs.

According to one of the nurses, he had an imperious tone at times, as if he was used to giving orders, rather than taking them.

And he might play golf.

But that wasn’t much to go on.

As he continued to gloss over the pages in the magazine, he paused to scan an ad for a new TaylorMade putter that was gaining popularity. It looked familiar. Did he have one in a golf bag somewhere?

His musing was interrupted by a silver-haired, pink-smocked hospital volunteer who entered the room and announced that it was dinnertime.

She carried in his tray, and when she set it on the portable table, he studied his meal: grilled chicken, a side of pasta, green beans, a roll and a little tub of chocolate ice cream.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” She offered him a sweet, grandmotherly smile. “Can I bring you anything else?”

“No, I’m set.” He paid special attention to his attitude with her, offering a smile-no need for her to think he was bossy-and waiting to pick up the fork until after she’d left the room.

Hospital food was supposed to be lousy, which was one more piece of useless information he’d managed to recall hearing at another time and place, but the food here wasn’t too bad.

As he speared a piece of lightly seasoned rigatoni, he glanced at the clock. Dr. Nielson would be stopping by soon-at least he hoped she would. He was getting tired of watching TV, and her visits were the only thing he had to look forward to.

Something told him that she didn’t have a professional reason to stop and see him. And if that were the case, he wondered whether it was a personal one.

He sure hoped so. Her visits had become the highlight of his day. Of course, he figured that even if he was back in his real world, her smile would be a welcome sight.

His first postmugging memory was of her pretty face, those vibrant green eyes and that wild auburn hair that she kept tied back by a barrette or a rubber band.

The night of the accident, he’d wondered for a nanosecond if she was an angel. If she had been, he would have run to the light. Gladly.

After finishing his meal, he reached for the tub of low-fat chocolate ice cream and pulled off the circular cardboard top.

Before he could dig in, her voice sounded in the doorway. “Good evening.”

John turned to his personal Florence Nightingale and smiled. “Hey. Come in.”

He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped thinking of her as a doctor. Pretty much the night he’d first laid eyes on her in the E.R., he guessed. He’d asked one of the nurses about her yesterday and had learned her name was Betsy. He’d also heard that she was one of the hardest working and most dedicated physicians on staff.

As she entered the room, she asked, “How’s it going?”

“Fine.” Did he dare tell her he was bored, that he wanted to get out of here, even if he didn’t have any place to go?

When she reached his bedside, her petite frame hiding behind a pair of pale teal scrubs that made her eyes appear to be an even deeper shade of green, he studied her.

She wore very little makeup-not that she needed it-but she downplayed her beauty, which was a shame. He bet she’d look damn good in a sexy black dress with a low neckline, spiked high heels, her cheeks slightly flushed, a light coat of pink lipstick over lips that had a natural pout-a mouth he’d been paying a lot of attention to.

Her shoulder-length curls were pulled back into a simple ponytail, which was probably a logical style for a busy E.R. doctor. But John couldn’t help imagining those locks hanging wild and free. Or envisioning her in an upscale jazz club, a lone saxophone playing a sultry tune in the background.

She placed her hand on the bedrail, her nails plain and neatly manicured. Her grip was light and tentative, though, as if she was a bit hesitant. A little nervous, even.

“I talked to Dr. Kelso,” she said. “He’s probably going to discharge you in the next day or so.”

“He said something about that to me this morning. So I guess that means I’m almost back to fighting weight.” John tried to toss her a carefree smile, but it probably fell short. He was as uneasy about the future as he was about the past, and it was a real stretch to pretend otherwise.

“Do you have any idea where you might like to go when you get out of here?” she asked.

If her gaze wasn’t so damn sympathetic, if her eyes weren’t so green, he might have popped off with something sarcastic. As it was, he shrugged. “Not yet. I keep hoping that I’ll wake up and my memory will come rushing back. But it looks like I’d better give my options some thought.”

“I have one for you,” she said.

“An option?” He pushed the portable table aside, clearly interested. “What’s that?”

“I talked to Dr. Graham. He needs some help on his ranch, if you don’t mind doing some of the heavier chores for him. He’s agreed to pay you a small salary and provide you with room and board. Of course, not until you’re feeling up to it and Dr. Kelso has released you to go to work.”

At the same ranch where Betsy lived? Had she gone to bat for him? It certainly seemed that way, and he could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that she’d done so for a stranger.

“Thanks for orchestrating things. I probably ought to stick around in Brighton Valley until… Well, until my life comes together for me again.”

“It’ll happen,” she said. “Your memory will come back to you.”

He wanted to believe her, but that’s not exactly what Dr. Kelso had said. He’d used words like probably and eventually. But no one knew if or when John’s memory would return. Or to what extent.

“For what it’s worth,” he told her with a grin, “things could change at any time. But for right now, you’re the best friend I’ve got in the world.”

The best friend he had.

The sincerity in John’s words burrowed deep into Betsy’s chest, pressing against her heart and stirring up all kinds of emotion-including a little guilt. Getting involved with her patients, even one she’d handed over to Jim Kelso, wasn’t a good idea, especially when he was breathtakingly handsome.

So she tried to downplay his comment or thoughts about any kind of relationship with him. “I’m sure you have a lot of friends, family and acquaintances who would be here to visit you if they could.”

“You might be right, but I’d be happy just to see my driver’s license and to know my name.” His gaze locked on hers, and she felt his frustration, his uneasiness.

She’d give anything to know more about him, too.

What kind of person was he? Honest and trustworthy? Loyal and caring?

Or was he a liar and a cheat?

She wished she could say that she had a sixth sense about that sort of thing, but she’d completely misread Doug, the man she’d once married.