Sidney Sheldon - Nothing lasts forever

Jason forced a smile. “You know what the man said—'It's not over till it's over.' ”

“Jason, you don't believe that I killed John Cronin for his money, do you? What I did, I did only to help him.”

“I believe you,” Jason said quietly. “I love you.”

He took her into his arms. I don't want to lose her, Jason thought. I can't. She's the best thing in my life. “Everything is going to be all right. I promised you we would be together forever.”

Paige held him close and thought, Nothing lasts forever. Nothing. How could everything have gone so wrong … so wrong … so wrong …

San Francisco July 1990

“Hunter, Kate. Here.”

“Taft, Betty Lou.” “I'm here.” “Taylor, Paige.” “Here.”

They were the only women among the large group of incoming first-year residents gathered in the large, drab auditorium at Embarcadero County Hospital.

Embarcadero County was the oldest hospital in San Francisco, and one of the oldest in the country. During the earthquake of 1989, God had played a joke on the residents of San Francisco and left the hospital standing.

It was an ugly complex, occupying more than three square blocks, with buildings of brick and stone, gray with years of accumulated grime.

Inside the front entrance of the main building was a large waiting room, with hard wooden benches for patients and visitors. The walls were flaking from too many decades of coats of paint, and the corridors were worn and uneven from too many thousands of patients in wheelchairs and on crutches and walkers. The entire complex was coated with the stale patina of time.

Embarcadero County Hospital was a city within a city. There were over nine thousand people employed at the hospital, including four hundred staff physicians, one hundred and fifty part-time voluntary physicians, eight hundred residents, and three thousand nurses, plus the technicians, unit aides, and other technical personnel. The upper floors contained a complex of twelve operating rooms, central supply, a bone bank, central scheduling, three emergency wards, an AIDS ward, and over two thousand beds.

Now, on the first day of the arrival of the new residents in July, Dr. Benjamin Wallace, the hospital administrator, rose to address them. Wallace was the quintessential politician, a tall, impressive-looking man with small skills and enough charm to have ingratiated his way up to his present position.

“I want to welcome all of you new resident doctors this morning. For the first two years of medical school, you worked with cadavers. In the last two years, you have worked with hospital patients under the supervision of senior doctors. Now, it's you who are going to be responsible for your patients. It's an awesome responsibility, and it takes dedication and skill.”

His eyes scanned the auditorium. “Some of you are planning to go into surgery. Others of you will be going into internal medicine. Each group will be assigned to a senior resident who will explain the daily routine to you. From now on, everything you do could be a matter of life or death.”

They were listening intently, hanging on every word.

“Embarcadero is a county hospital. That means we admit anyone who comes to our door. Most of the patients are indigent. They come here because they can't afford a private hospital. Our emergency rooms are busy twenty-four hours a day. You're going to be overworked and underpaid. In a private hospital, your first year would consist of routine scut work. In the second year, you would be allowed to hand a scalpel to the surgeon, and in your third year, you would be permitted to do some supervised minor surgery. Well, you can forget all that. Our motto here is 'Watch one, do one, teach one.”

“We're badly understaffed, and the quicker we can get you into the operating rooms, the better. Are there any questions?”

There were a million questions the new residents wanted to ask.

“None? Good. Your first day officially begins tomorrow. You will report to the main reception desk at five-thirty tomorrow morning. Good luck!”

The briefing was over. There was a general exodus toward the doors and the low buzz of excited conversations. The three women found themselves standing together.

“Where are all the other women?” “I think we're it.”

“It's a lot like medical school, huh? The boys' club. I have a feeling this place belongs to the Dark Ages.” The person talking was a flawlessly beautiful black woman, nearly six feet tall, large-boned, but intensely graceful. Everything about her, her walk, her carriage, the cool, quizzical look she carried in her eyes, sent out a message of aloofness. “I'm Kate Hunter. They call me Kat.”

“Paige Taylor.” Young and friendly, intelligent-looking, self-assured.

They turned to the third woman.

“Betty Lou Taft. They call me Honey.” She spoke with a soft Southern accent. She had an open, guileless face, soft gray eyes, and a warm smile.

“Where are you from?” Kat asked.

“Memphis, Tennessee.”

They looked at Paige. She decided to give them the simple answer. “Boston.”

“Minneapolis,” Kat said. That's close enough, she thought.

Paige said, “It looks like we're all a long way from home. Where are you staying?”

“I'm at a fleabag hotel,” Kat said. “I haven't had a chance to look for a place to live.”

Honey said, “Neither have I.”

Paige brightened. “I looked at some apartments this morning. One of them was terrific, but I can't afford it. It has three bedrooms …”

They stared at one another. “If the three of us shared…” Kat said.

The apartment was in the Marina district, on Filbert Street. It was perfect for them. 3Br/2Ba, nu cpts, lndry, prkg, utils pd. It was furnished in early Sears Roebuck, but it was neat and clean.

When the three women were through inspecting it, Honey said, “I think it's lovely.”

“So do I!” Kat agreed.

They looked at Paige.

“Let's take it.”

They moved into the apartment that afternoon. The janitor helped them carry their luggage upstairs.

“So you're gonna work at the hospital,” he said. “Nurses, huh?”

“Doctors,” Kat corrected him.

He looked at her skeptically. “Doctors? You mean, like real doctors?”

“Yes, like real doctors,” Paige told him.

He grunted. “Tell you the truth, if I needed medical attention, I don't think I'd want a woman examining my body.”

“We'll keep that in mind.”

“Where's the television set?” Kat asked. “I don't see one.”

“If you want one, you'll have to buy it. Enjoy the apartment, ladies—er, doctors.” He chuckled.

They watched him leave.

Kat said, imitating his voice, “Nurses, eh?” She snorted. “Male chauvinist. Well, let's pick out our bedrooms.”

“Any one of them is fine with me,” Honey said softly.

They examined the three bedrooms. The master bedroom was larger than the other two.

Kat said, “Why don't you take it, Paige? You found this place.”

Paige nodded. “All right.”

They went to their respective rooms and began to unpack. From her suitcase, Paige carefully removed a framed photograph of a man in his early thirties. He was attractive, wearing black-framed glasses that gave him a scholarly look. Paige put the photograph at her bedside, next to a bundle of letters.

Kat and Honey wandered in. “How about going out and getting some dinner?”

“I'm ready,” Paige said.

Kat saw the photograph. “Who's that?”

Paige smiled. “That's the man I'm going to marry. He's a doctor who works for the World Health Organization. His name is Alfred Turner. He's working in Africa right now, but he's coming to San Francisco so we can be together.”