Wishes and Stitches (6 page)

Eliza's dark script read,
This was my sister Honey's wedding ring. I have many people I love, but very few with the kind of eyes you have. You remind me very much of her, and I'm giving this to you (I knew you'd never have accepted it any other way—forgive my treasure hunt method). Knit the shawl in honor of her (not in memory of me, because we'll be thinking of each other no matter what). Thank you for being kind to me when I wasn't at my best. We are kin, my dear, with knitting in our blood. Wear the ring in joy.

Naomi had slipped it onto her right hand. It fit perfectly, as if it had always been there. Eliza was right, she would never have accepted a ring from a patient. Ever.

But she'd accept it from a friend. If she was honest with herself, she could admit that she'd felt more connection with Eliza Carpenter than she felt with most people, her own family included. Eliza was blunt almost to a fault when she wanted to make a point, but could talk to anyone, anywhere, with a focus that made the other person feel as if whatever it was they were saying was the most important, the very
best
thing that had ever been said.

When Eliza had told her to knit, she had. And when the idea of moving had come up, remembering what Eliza had said about Cypress Hollow had made it the top town on her list.

And now, Naomi sat in Eliza's hometown, twisting the ring on her finger, looking out the window to the dunes across the street. She was building a practice, yes. But was she building a life?

Her intercom buzzed and Bruno's voice said, “Sugar Watson just canceled—you have twenty minutes until your next appointment.”

Thank God for Bruno. He put the right paperwork in her hand, he restocked supplies, he filled cancelation slots, all while checking people in, getting their vitals. Even with his scowl, the patients seemed to love him. And though he rarely spoke, she knew he was key to the smooth running of the practice.

She should tell him so.

Naomi made her way through the office until she was standing behind him.

“Bruno,” she started.

He swiveled, clearly startled that she was talking to him. The pen was behind his ear again as he typed, and she wasn't following his nonverbal clue. “What?”

“I just wanted to thank you for everything you do. You're the reason this place runs so well . . .” She stopped as Bruno turned away to retrieve a piece of paper off the printer. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” he mumbled as he removed the pen and set it on the desk. Then he turned sideways to fiddle with a loose cabinet knob.

“Really? You seem a little off.”

He sighed heavily. “I'm okay.”

Naomi kicked herself. She should have noticed something was wrong, but she'd been so busy all day . . . Pulling a small chair around the partition and into his space, she sat facing him. “Tell me what's going on. I'm sorry I haven't asked before.”

“It's nothing, Dr. Fontaine.”

“And about that, will you call me Naomi?”

He stared.

“I'm sorry that it never occurred to me.” God, she sounded like such an ass. “But I'd really like it if you would.”

“Okay . . . Naomi.” Her name sounded round in his mouth, as if he was trying it out for the first time, which perhaps he was.

“Now, what's going on?” She took a stab in the dark. “Is it a girl?”

He went on staring at her. “What?”

“You know, girl trouble?” Naomi floundered. “Dating woes?”

“I'm gay,” Bruno said flatly. “I assumed you knew that.”

Several things clunked into place in Naomi's mind, including the man named Peter, who came to collect Bruno for drinks on Friday nights after work. “Oh, shit.”

“That's your answer to ‘I'm gay'? I'm gonna say that's probably not politically correct.”

Naomi grimaced and dug her fingers into her thighs. “No, that's
so
not what I meant. I was just surprised.”

“Wow.”

“I—,” she started. Maybe she could make it right. “So Peter is . . .”

“My boyfriend.”

Naomi nodded. “He's very . . . he has nice . . .” What wouldn't sound bad, wouldn't sound as if she was stereotyping him? Shoes? Eyes? Hair?

“Do you have a problem with gay people?” Bruno's scowl was deeper than usual.

“Of course not. I'm glad you are.”
God
, she wanted to hit herself in the head. She was glad he was gay? What did that even
mean
?

“Excuse me. I think I'm going to take a break.”

“Yes, of course. Yes.” Naomi scooted back in the chair to let him out. Then she dropped her head into her hands.

She didn't even know Bruno, did she? Naomi didn't know where he lived, had never hung out with him after work. She didn't know if he and Peter had pets. Lord, they could have kids and she wouldn't know it. That was inexcusable. If she'd ever had to treat him, if he'd ever been in front of her, as her patient, she'd know something about him—they'd have that small connection, the only one she was good at making. But out here, in the front office. . .

Maybe she could get him a gift certificate to something. A spa, something nice. Rubbing her eyes, she sighed. A gift certificate as an apology was ridiculous. It was something her mother would do.

And she couldn't think of anything else.

Chapter Nine

C
offee. She needed more. Naomi's brain was screaming for it by the time she hung up with Pederson. It all seemed legit, the hiring, all of it. Pederson was going to pay the biggest percent of his salary, since he was still drawing equally from the partnership while not working. If Rig Keller worked out, Pederson would officially retire, and the new guy could step up and buy his share of the practice. That was, if Naomi approved of him, he said. Pederson had made it clear that she had the final say. “If Keller doesn't cut it, then we can talk about you buying me out. You can choose whether you want him as a partner or not in your own time, but I'll be retiring in the not too distant future, no matter what.”

You already did, didn't you?
Naomi wanted to ask, but she bit the words back. There was no way she'd be able to afford to buy Pederson out. She made good money, but not
that
much money. She'd had to finance her almost half of the business as it was. And she knew Pederson wouldn't be coming back. He'd called her from Puerto Rico, where he'd just bought a time-share.

The man she'd thought was just a one-night stand
had
to work out. She didn't have much choice.

Her intercom buzzed. “Doctor?” Bruno's voice sounded strangled. “We have a . . . situation in the front.”

Naomi spun out of her father's old chair so fast it fell backward with a thunk. She'd never actually had a walk-in emergency, not yet, so they were overdue for one. Images flew through her mind as she ran through the office hall—burn? MI? Asthma attack, or anaphylactic shock?

She pushed through the swinging door into the waiting room at full speed. Bruno knelt on the carpet next to an older woman who was swaying, the curlers in her violet hair bobbing as she put her hands to her lined face. Naomi strained to look over their shoulders to see what they were leaning over.

“My baby, my baby, my
baby
! Oh, save her, please!”

An infant? Shit, they'd need an ambulance for transport . . . Naomi deliberately pushed down the frisson of fear that had always risen when she'd worked the ER—when the doors there had banged open, she'd gotten used to taking a deep breath and then
working.

“Move aside, please, let me in.” Her voice was regulated, even. Professional. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Bruno said, “This is Mrs. Archer, and she—”

“Oh,” wailed Mrs. Archer. “I knew better than to give her that pork rib, but she was just starving, and her little eyes begged and begged.
Do
something,
save
her!”

The patient was a tiny brown dog.

A
dog
.

A Pomeranian, Naomi assessed, or maybe a long-haired Chihuahua, with a ridiculous-looking lion cut—fringe at the face and the tip of its tail—and one that wasn't breathing very well. The dog coughed and retched, its glassy eyes bulging. “She's choking?”

“Yes!” screeched Mrs. Archer. “Help her!”

As Naomi knelt and reached for the dog, she said, “You know I'm not a vet, right?”

Mrs. Archer clutched the neck of her purple sweatshirt. “You're a doctor, right? You took that oath! Now
do
something. She's my baby.”

Bruno made a choking sound that echoed the dog's, and Naomi knew the only thing stuck in his throat was a laugh.

But the poor dog looked miserable. It was obviously able to breathe around the obstruction, and while Naomi saw the humor in the situation, she felt for the animal. “Let me see her. What's her name?”

“Miss Idaho.”

Naomi bit back the smile. “A beauty queen.”

“Careful, if you pick her up, just be—”

“I've got her. Bruno, come with me and lay a cover over that low filing cabinet.” Naomi carried the hacking dog through the doors and into Bruno's space. No way in hell was she risking getting caught putting the dog on an examining table, but a table-height filing cabinet couldn't hurt, could it?

“Here,” Bruno cleared the space and put down the paper. Naomi laid Miss Idaho down, her tiny sides heaving and tears leaking from her eyes.

She pried the small mouth open, grateful that Miss Idaho didn't seem inclined to bite. Naomi recognized Mrs. Archer from walks—she had two other dogs identical to this one, and one of them had once gone for Naomi's ankle. If she hadn't jumped into the rose bush next to the credit union, it would've gotten her. Instead, she'd received an undeserved stern shake of the head from Mrs. Archer and two puncture wounds from the rose bush.

Naomi couldn't see anything in the dog's mouth.

“Can you pull it out?” Mrs. Archer bobbled up and down next to her.

“I can't risk pushing it in farther.”

Heimlich, then? As on an infant, with chest thrusts? Naomi risked a glance at Bruno. Staid, solemn Bruno, who never laughed at work, had the corners of his mouth tucked, and his eyes danced with what looked like mirth.

Only way to know was to try. Naomi fitted her thumb just below the wriggling dog's sternum, put her other thumb on top of it, and pushed.

Nothing.

One more time she pressed firmly, and the small piece of bone flew out, smacking Naomi wetly on the forehead before it dropped to the floor, and she was blasted by a sudden rush of fetid dog breath. “Oh, wow. Your dog could use some of those Greenies. Her breath is not quite . . . fresh.”

Miss Idaho leaped into Mrs. Archer's open arms and began licking her face. “You saved her!”

“I did.” Naomi grinned. “Another happy ending.” Squirting liquid soap onto a wet paper towel, she prepped to remove the dog slime from her forehead.

Someone behind her clapped. “Well done,” said a low voice that sent a quick shock of electricity up her spine.

Rig Keller.

Shit
.

He stood at the swinging door, grinning as if he were a kid about to get on a roller coaster. Naomi had to concentrate on not rubbing off her mascara as she finished cleaning up.

“I apologize: you were busy when I came in and I didn't want to disturb the lifesaving. I didn't know this was what I'd signed up for, but I gotta tell you, I approve.” He filled the doorway with his broad shoulders—how had she
not
noticed him coming in?

“What, this? Just another day in the office,” said Naomi while drying her brow with another paper towel. She was relieved her voice sounded even. “We just saved a baby.”

Bruno nodded with her, solemn again.

Naomi went on, “Mrs. Archer's baby. A real beauty queen, too. A tiny, hairy human baby who suffers from . . . lupidexederma, a
most
challenging skin condition. Also, advanced gingivitis.”

Mrs. Archer frowned. “Will my insurance cover this?”

As Bruno took a relieved-looking Mrs. Archer by the elbow and steered her firmly through the swinging door, Naomi said, “I'm sure it will. We'll just bill them directly so you won't have to worry about it.”

There. That was taken care of. Naomi blew a curl out of her face. Now there was just the man to deal with.

Rig came forward, his hand outstretched. “It's good to see you again, Doc.”

“Naomi, please.” That was it, it came out just the right way. Casually. Yes, they could stand here and talk as if they hadn't . . .

She stopped her thought. His hand was huge and cool to the touch and he shook her still-damp one firmly, with just the right professional level of pressure.

He put his hands back in his jeans pockets and smiled. “Naomi.”

Jeans? He wasn't planning on actually working today, was he? Although she had to admit that he looked better in jeans than most men looked in expensive suits. The way they clung to his wide, well-muscled thighs. . .

“Coffee! Before all this, I was going to get coffee,” she said, waving her hands idiotically. “In the break room, Bruno's probably made some . . .” She turned and led him into the office hallway, not watching to see if he followed.

But the carafe was empty and it needed washing. Normally she left it for Bruno, but not this time. She needed to get that spa certificate sooner rather than later. “I just need to rinse this.” She turned the faucet on and felt Rig's eyes on her back. Neither of them spoke over the water, and she used the moment to take a deep breath.

When she'd started the coffee brewing and turned back around to face him, he said, “I hope this is an okay time.”

“It's fine. I was on a short break before the walk-in emergency.” She couldn't help grinning. A
dog.
“Do you want some?” She gestured to the pot.

“No, thanks. I'm fine. Do you have time this afternoon to go over some things? Maybe show me around? Or should I have called first? Did Pederson call you yet?” Rig jammed a hand into his thick hair, as if he was nervous, too.

She nodded. “I'll give you the nickel tour right now.”

Rig looked relieved. Maybe this wasn't easy for him, either. She was, essentially, his boss, and she hadn't known about it till yesterday. For God's sake, his tongue had done things to her that she thought might still be illegal in some backwoods parts of the country. And now she had to be professional. Competent
.
Well, even if she didn't like it, even if she was furious with Pederson, she could be professional. None of this was Rig's fault. He was just the new guy.

She reminded herself that her father had raised a good doctor, not one who got flustered easily, dammit. She took another deep breath and smiled. Rig smiled back, and she felt something flip in her stomach.

“We don't normally work on animals on top of file cabinets, just so you know.”

“Of course not.” Rig's smile was like honey, slow moving and sweet. “I find filing cabinets often too high. That was a nice low one, though. Again, great job. I have to admit, I thought you were more of a by-the-book kind of gal, the kind who would have sent her down the street to the vet.”

Naomi paused before speaking. She
was
a by-the-book kind of doctor, and proud of it. She didn't have time to waste messing around with alterna-healing ideas, the kind of East meets West stuff that some of her colleagues were embracing. No. It had to be tested and proven true for her to subscribe to an idea. No chakra-energy centers for her.

Except she'd done the Heimlich on a dog.

She cursed the blush she felt rising. “Well. Yes. Shall we?”

Then she took a deep breath and led Rig around the office, showing him the records-management system, the computerized charts on each patient, the billing area, the examining rooms and their organized closets, and the small lab drop area. Naomi felt his approval with each step. Every time she pulled out a drawer, he asked intelligent questions, and he seemed impressed with the stock of supplies they kept on hand.

Bruno came into the back office carrying a case of paper.

“Bruno!” said Naomi. “You might have already gathered this in all the excitement, but this is Dr. Keller, our new hire.”

“Hey,” Bruno said, brushing past them.

“But you can call me Rig,” Rig said.

Bruno nodded but didn't say anything. He opened a cabinet and started putting away the reams of paper, moving boxes of pens out of his way.

“Bruno's great,” Naomi hurried to say. “I mean, he does just about everything around here. I couldn't do it without him. And he's gay!”

Bruno's hand froze in midair, still holding highlighters. Rig coughed.

Naomi wanted a sinkhole to open under her feet. She'd meant to sound cool, breezy, casual. Not like an asshole.

“Bruno,” she said as he walked away from the box half emptied on the shelf.

“That plus the amusing but rather disgusting doggy Heimlich you did on my filing cabinet equals this: I'm taking the rest of the day off.” He said the words over his shoulder, not waiting for confirmation or permission, and exited through the side emergency door.

Naomi slumped against the counter. “I didn't mean to say that.”

“Didn't come out well,” said Rig.

“Nope.” Naomi sighed.

“Will he be okay?”

“I sure hope so, because I wasn't blowing smoke. He's essential.”

“He'll be fine. Anyone who can walk out like that has a backbone, and that's a good thing.” Was that a laugh she heard in his voice? She hoped not, because if it was . . .

“What's down this hall?” he asked. “Restroom?”

“Yeah. And . . .” Naomi straightened. She'd make it up to Bruno later, and she'd make it good. But now she had to handle Rig. “And . . . your office. It was Pederson's, but I doubt he'll need it now. You might as well take it over.”

The grin almost split his face. “Hot damn. Pederson did say I should use his. You know, I've never really had one of my own. I always used the front seat of rental cars. Or perched high over the ocean in small metal rooms with bad lighting .”

Naomi opened the second door. “It's . . . well, you can see that he hasn't been around much.”

Much? She was being generous. A thick layer of dust had settled on the edges of the bookshelves and on Dr. Pederson's framed certificates. When she'd been in here to find Rig's CV, she hadn't opened the windows. But when Naomi pulled back the curtain, an actual cobweb was draped over the glass.

“Oh, God, this is awful. We have a cleaner, of course, but he always said for her not to go into his private space, and I haven't had any need to.” Naomi brushed her hands off, slapping away the coating of dust she'd picked up just by pulling out the man's chair. “I think I've . . . been in a bit of denial about him coming back. Somehow I believed him every time he called to say he'd be back in a couple of weeks.”