Joan Kilby - Child of Her Dreams

“Your, uh, heart rate’s a little fast.” This was crazy; she was not his kind of woman.

“White-coat syndrome?” she suggested with a whimsical lift of her eyebrows. She’d brushed them upward, and their lushness emphasized the deep lapis blue of her eyes and the delicate bridge of her long straight nose.

“I’m ordering some follow-up blood work,” he said briskly, retreating to his desk to uncap his fountain pen and fill out the correct form. “I understand the hospital down the road in Simcoe handles that. While you’re there, you should make an appointment with the nutritionist.”

“Okay.”

He glanced up sharply. Her agreement was too casual, too ready to be true. He bet she had no intention of following a nutritionist’s regime, even supposing she kept the appointment. “I’m serious, Ms. Hanson,” he said, writing her referral. “Your job isn’t conducive to a healthy lifestyle, as amply shown by your collapse. From what I’ve heard, models play hard—”

“And work hard,” she protested.

He tried to keep the skepticism out of his expression. “The point is, you need to take care of yourself.”

“Doctor…” She hesitated before going on. “Have you ever had a patient who’s died and come back? Someone who had a near-death experience?”

“No, I haven’t.” He tore the referral note from the pad, folded it and put it in an envelope. “But I know that near-death experiences are hallucinations brought on by a lack of oxygen to the brain when the heart stops pumping blood.”

“You know that, do you?” she said, her face troubled.

“It’s the accepted medical explanation. Why? Do you think you had a near-death experience?”

“Yes, and it was no hallucination,” she said earnestly. “When I was in the hospital in Milan someone brought in an English newspaper. In it was an article about a Dutch study that monitored the vital signs of patients who reported near-death experiences. One man even described the doctors removing his dentures before putting a tube down his throat to revive him. All this while he had no pulse and no detectable brain activity. What do you think of that?”

“Unconvincing. I read the original article written up in the British medical journal Lancet. There’re plenty of other studies that prove the experiences are generated by the brain as it faces the trauma of death. In my opinion the Dutch study doesn’t prove there’s life after death.”

“But I met my m—” She broke off abruptly and, to Ben’s relief, waved away the topic of conversation. “Never mind.” Then she noticed the framed photo on his desk of him and Eddie standing on the stone steps of a ruined Mayan temple. “That must be your brother. He’s a doctor, too, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” He handed her the referral envelope. “How did you know?”

Geena Hanson grinned, and the sophisticated model turned into a mischievous girl. “This is a small town. By the end of the week I’ll know your brand of toothpaste.”

Her grin charmed him even more than her beauty, but he was careful not to let it show. “Be sure to see the nutritionist. And I’d like to see you again in a couple months for a follow-up examination.”

She lingered in the doorway, her gaze roving over him. “What brings you to Hainesville, Doctor?”

He found himself standing closer to her than necessary, drinking in the blue of her eyes while her perfume continued to befuddle his senses. Her smile invited flirtation, and he lost the struggle to maintain a strictly professional manner. “When you find out,” he drawled, “let me know.”

She laughed, a spontaneous guffaw at odds with her elegance. “I’ll do that,” she said, and glided away.

“Next,” Ben called. But the waiting room had filled while he’d been seeing Geena, and the patients didn’t know any better than he did whose turn it was. The batch of mixed-up files was no help. A mother with a crying child, an elderly man, a teenage boy in a cast and a middle-aged woman stared blankly at him. Then they all began talking at once, claiming priority.

Geena paused at the exit, one hand on the door-knob, and studied the situation. Ben Matthews, competent doctor though he was, was clearly out of his depth. Her first instinct was to go to his assistance. But, she argued with herself, she knew nothing about being a receptionist in a medical clinic. The old Geena would have walked; the new Geena saw a person in need. The woman in her mentally hugged herself. For a while longer she would enjoy the company of this delicious man with the intelligent eyes and the air of adventure still clinging to his woven shirt.

She strode to the reception desk and picked up the stack of patient files before scanning the room. She’d never done this sort of work before, but how hard could it be? She knew most of the folks here. Add a little common sense and a lot of compassion…

The little girl crying and twisting in her mother’s lap while she clutched at her ear was clearly in pain.

“Laura,” Geena called, recognizing the mom as one of Erin’s high school friends. “You go next.”

“Thanks. She’s got an ear infection.” With obvious relief, Laura carried her sick daughter past Ben into the examining room.

Geena felt a hand on her arm, and Ben pulled her to one side. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Calmly disregarding his annoyed tone, she said, “I expect your patients could use some help organizing themselves. Not everyone is as enterprising as I am.”

“Indeed.” Beneath his mustache, his compressed lips curved a little. Then he glanced at the waiting room, where his patients had settled back to their magazines with resigned acceptance. Eyebrows raised, Ben shrugged. “Okay.”

Geena seated herself at the reception desk and began to arrange the files in the order in which she thought best. When Laura and her little girl were through, she helped Mr. Marshall to his feet, then handed the elderly gentleman his cane.

Ben paused beside the reception desk to pick up Mr. Marshall’s file. “I take it you’re staying awhile?”

“I don’t know,” she said, pretending to consider the matter. “I’ve got a lot to do today.” Touch up her nail polish, read the latest issue of Vogue, yawn a couple of dozen times from boredom. She’d barely been home a week and already she was going crazy. “But since you asked so nicely…all right.”

She leaned across the desk and added in an undertone, “Mr. Marshall has gout in his big toe, has had for years. But he’s sensitive about his feet. Be nice.”

One side of his mouth curled up. “I’m always nice.”

Geena was sure he was, in spite of his lack of understanding about near-death experiences. Certainly, he wasn’t like other men she knew, European playboys and New York stockbrokers, men with no one’s interests at heart but their own. Despite his obvious disapproval of her, Ben Matthews struck her as a very caring man. And an attractive one. While he’d been reading her file, she’d studied him. She liked his tall, solid body and his wry smile. She liked his long tapered fingers that held a fountain pen instead of an ordinary ballpoint. She liked the slight wave in his dark hair and the faint color that had appeared in his cheeks when he’d listened to her heart. But it was his Texas drawl that made her insides weak.

Ben escorted Mr. Marshall to the examining room, and Geena tackled the accumulated fliers from medical supply and pharmaceutical companies cluttering the desk, finding unexpected satisfaction in putting the office in order. The outside door opened, and she turned to see who had come in.

“Geena Hanson, is that you?” the woman shrieked.

Geena let out a yell. “Linda Thirsk! I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you in years.” She hurried around the desk to hug her high school friend.