Beautiful friendship, p.68
Beautiful Friendship, page 68
Anne walked into the master bedroom next, intent on checking the size, the
amount of light filtering into it, and the view. It was impossible not to notice more private details about Brandon's life here, though. There were pictures of Brandon and little Ilsa celebrating Christmas, building snowmen, going on
holiday. There was a medal for bravery in the line of duty, a particular detail that brought painful thoughts of Frederick. And there was a photo discretely displayed on one dresser. Brandon in an army uniform, embracing a woman
who was nothing short of gorgeous. They were posing in front of one of
London's most famous churches. At the bottom of the image was the
inscription 'Scarlett and Brandon, Wedding Day.
There was another photo next to it, also set in London. It was the same woman, bare-headed this time and with a cancer-ravaged face, though that did nothing to detract from her impish smile. She was holding a two year old on her lap.
Little Ilsa. The photo was dated three years ago.
"Have you ever lived in London before?"
"Yes. Three years back. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago."
Brandon and his little girl must have moved from London to Wynnford shortly
after Scarlett's death. An escape, Anne thought, to flee from grief and to give Ilsa a sunlit house to play in while he pulled himself from the brink of...of sorrow, and despair. Wynnford was his retreat, and he'd chosen well. There was no hint of lingering sorrow within the walls of this comfortable house. This had been a home for them. Now, three years later, perhaps he was finally ready to move on. To go back to London.
Deeply moved and feeling as if she'd come across something too personal to be gawked at, Anne quickly fled the bedroom and stumbled down the steps,
suddenly needing some air. Moving quickly, she retreated through the cozy
kitchen, flinging open a door that led to the back yard. The sky twisted above her, blurring with the green grass.
Her stomach had felt queasy this morning. She'd skipped breakfast. As it
lurched in rebellion now, she stumbled onto the back stoop, resting her head between her knees. There would be nowhere to retreat to if she lost Frederick, nowhere that would feel far enough to run. She wanted to say she couldn't
imagine it, but she could. The thought kept her up at night, the nightmares and the fear. Brandon had Ilsa to help him keep going. Anne was all alone here.
Frederick had been gone for a month. Exactly one month, to the day. It was
June 19th, their anniversary. She'd been carrying on well enough, house
hunting, packing up her things, and putting her affairs in order to prepare for his return. Whenever that happened. It could be tomorrow, or another month
from now, or another six months. Such was the life of a Navy bride, especially one whose husband worked in Counter-Intelligence. Nighttime was difficult,
but she took the daylight hours step by step, just like he'd told her.
These past two weeks, though, unsteadiness rocked her. At first she'd mistaken it for an onset of the flu. She was around children all day long, it wasn't hard to pick up a bug. They'd passed the end of her school term and that last sprint toward evaluations was one of her busiest, most stressful times of year. Coming down with a mild cold or a flu would be no surprise.
But this was different. Nausea rocked her without warning. Random smells bothered her. She could barely handle the scent of Emma cooking eggs for
breakfast. And her period was late. She'd only spent one night with Frederick before his deployment, their wedding night. Granted, they hadn't slept much
that night, but what were the chances that she'd ended up pregnant? After one night? Suspicion, shock, surprise, hope, and excitement, all churned within her.
Pregnant, she thought, letting her hand drift from her clammy forehead to her abdomen. And if it was true, how long before she could tell him that herself?
The sun was angled high today. She could feel it soak into her, like a hand
warming her back. Trust, Frederick had said. Not just that, but belief. Taking another deep breath, Anne opened her eyes. She'd stumbled into the backyard, she might as well take a look around. What she saw took her breath away.
It was a rose garden.
June was Emma's favorite month. Bolder than May, more temperate than July,
June was the prelude to what would drown them for the next three months: heat and sunshine.
There were no clocks in the studio-a deliberate choice. She didn't want the
subject of her portrait distracted, and as for herself, her painting schedule was less dependent on clock hands, and more dependent on the light flooding into her studio. Sunbeams at mid-morning, shadows by dinner.
Today, though, she didn't need to judge the passage of time by the light. She could judge it solely on Marianne Dashwood's moods. Marianne had been
mournful in the morning, despairing at lunchtime. By mid-day, irate was the
mood that seemed to stick.
"They've been engaged for six months," Marianne Dashwood hiccuped, fingers clenching around the pleated chiffon of her skirt. "That's why Willoughby never wanted me showing up at the hospital unannounced. He didn't want me
running into his fiancee. And not only was he cheating on me, it turns out that I'm the 'other' woman. I'm not even the one he's cheating on, I'm the one he's cheating with!"
For the first time in her life, Marianne was the dumpee, not the dumper. Dr.
James Willoughby, her current one-true-love, had ended their affair,
irrevocably. Not only that, he had dumped her for hotel heiress, Maris
Kingston. Maris was everything Marianne wasn't: older, wealthier, more
'lifestyle appropriate.'
"It sounds like you're lucky to be rid of him," Emma noted with little inflection.
Her focus was on her canvas. Goldenrod, she decided suddenly. The gold of
Marianne's eyes-easily the girl's most arresting feature---needed to have more goldenrod. The model's distress had caused her to deepen the color to an angry,
static amber, when what she needed was a melting, honeyed gold. That meant more yellow, less orange, a dash of white, and a--
"I know I shouldn't miss him, Emma. I shouldn't," Marianne continued, intruding on Emma's thoughts. "But I do. He told me he loved me. I believed him, Emme, I really did."
Tears started welling in those remarkable gold eyes, and soon enough, despite her condemnation of him, her cheeks were wet. Emma set down her paint
brush and palate, careful not to knock over her water dish or oil knives as she detached herself from her easel.
"Marianne, if you're not feeling well enough for this today, we can continue tomorrow." Emma reached out one paint-stained hand, offering the model a tissue.
"I'm sorry, Emma. I really thought I could carry on," Marianne insisted, dabbing at her cheeks. "You're so lucky to be with a man you trust so much."
Marianne sighed. "Do you think that guy from the Hypnotize Cologne ads is single? He's cute, and I think he's signed through Elect Modeling. He looks a bit short, though. I'd prefer six feet or over. Maybe the guy who does those razor blade commercials?"
"Marianne," Emma attempted, "if you ever want to find someone who loves you for you-you, Mari, not your looks, or your clothing, or your money, or
your lack of money, you have to stop shopping for guys with a checklist."
"Easy for you to say. George checks every box across the board. Handsome, rich, doctor."
"George is very handsome, but he's also honorable. He's seen me through the most difficult moments in my life. I trust him more than anyone else in the
world. That's what you need to focus on finding, Marianne. Not six-foot-two, blond haired, blue-eyed perfection. Try finding a guy you can trust and respect, and who does the same for you, and see what happens."
"Maybe you're right. I always thought I believed in love at first sight. Now I'm not so sure." Marianne wobbled to a stand, encumbered by the ornate Clarissa Matlock dress Andromeda had chosen for the sitting. It was a soft violet silk. "I don't know, Emma, the whole thing's put me off love. I've been crying for days.
I can't eat. I can't sleep."
"Over Willoughby? Really?"
"I loved him," Marianne sniffed. Perhaps she had, Emma thought. Or perhaps she just loved 'love,' the fantasy and the illusion of infatuation. Not real, breathable, touchable, sacrificial love.
"Just come back tomorrow ready to work, okay?"
That was all the impetus Marianne needed to trot off. Marianne was going to
pull out her guitar and work on expanding her song portfolio, she said. It
seemed like a good idea. If love was fed by poetry, heartbreak's libation came in the form of weepy love songs.
In the stillness of the back studio room, Emma pushed away all thoughts of her friend's romantic trials and studied her painting. Out of the three
commissioned, Sargent-inspired paintings, she'd begun with 'Lady Agnew.'
Marianne's face was different from the original sitter, but the pose, the
surroundings, and the mood of the portrait were the same. There was a subtle tension in a Sargent painting, a play between lethargy and action, and that was what Emma was trying to capture. Submission should be communicated in the
drape of the arm, rebellion in that slight arch of the brow.
But there was too much clarity in the pattern of the flowers on the chair fabric, she decided abruptly. Emma frowned, fingers twitching for her paintbrush.
She'd been right on the cusp of a break, but if she gave herself a few more
minutes...
Or, she thought as she settled back in her chair, a few more hours. For the first time all day, she finally had a little peace and quiet.
"And then I said to her. Marianne, where'd you expect this to go? She's just a kid. Nineteen! I can't be her babysitter anymore. Know what I mean?"
Willoughby questioned, flipping through an appointment calendar. The
calender displayed a girl for each month, a sexist relic of a bygone age that seemed to offend everyone but Willoughby. Bored, he whistled and held up the calendar. "Woah, check out Miss July. That'll get your temperature up, yeah?"
"No," Knightley snapped, shoving his case file in its shelf. He glance up at the whiteboard rotational schedule. If he was stuck with Dr. Willoughby as a
partner for one more consult today, he was going to set fire to that calendar of Willoughby's, he really was.
"Dr. Knightley, can you hand me one of the blood pressure cuffs from the third drawer?" Cheryl, a pretty second-shift nurse, questioned. Knightley ducked behind the nurse's station. Seconds later, he was handing her the object.
"Here you go."
"Thank's, Dr. K." Cheryl smiled at him. "When's your big day with Emma?"
"Two weeks away."
"And you have everything decided?"
"Everything but the honeymoon. We can't decide where to go." He flashed her a smile. "Tell me, Cheryl, where did you and Mark go?"
"Italy," Cheryl replied with a grin. "One wonderful, very short week away. To this day, the rest of our wedding is mostly a blur. But I still remember Italy."
"I've been to Italy," Willoughby remarked.
Cheryl's gaze flicked to him, apathetic. "And?"
"And why don't you ever take any interest in my personal life?" Willoughby pressed.
"Because I don't like you," Cheryl answered with a sticky sweet smile, before turning back to Knightley. "I'm due for rounds. See you, Dr. Knightley."
"Are you sure you don't need help?" Willoughby called as she walked away.
"Nope!" shouted Cheryl, not bothering to look behind her. It was just as well she didn't. She would have been subjected to a leer.
"What's her problem?" Willoughby groused.
Henrietta's approach prevented Knightley's reply. The redhead's cheeks were
flushed, and her eyes-a cheerful blue on the darkest of days---were bright with fear.
"George!" The use of his first name raised eyebrows, but she carried on. "Nurse Carlin said I was supposed to take vitals for the patient in cubicle 22-A, but he scares me. Can you help me? Please? Please help me."
"Sure, Hen."
"Dr. Knightley to the rescue, yeah?" Willoughby smirked at Henrietta. "You could have asked me."
"She didn't." Knightley reached across the table, snatch the calendar from Willoughby's hands before dropping it in a waste bin. "Come on, Henrietta, let's go."
The stench was the first thing Knightley noticed. Sweat drenched the patient, creating dark spots on his shirt. The patient was trembling.
"Me legs 'urt," the man grunted.
"The first responder found him passed out in an alley on Bond Street,"
Henrietta explained.
"I need a cuff, and a thermometer," Knightley told her quietly, before flipping open the patient's chart. "Our paperwork says your name is Bill. It also says this is your third trip to our E.R. in the past two months. Do you know where you are, Bill?"
"I want a shot," the patient grumbled, bloodshot eyes darting from one end of the room to the next before settling opaquely on Knightley. "Me bloo'y skin hurts and I want it."
Undaunted by the patient's appearance, Knightley reached for the man's wrist, resting a thumb on his pulse. His gaze slid up the man's pale limbs. Track
marks scarred his broken veins.
"When was your last hit?" Knightley questioned with clinical stoicism. "Bill, do you understand me?"
"Gimme. A. Shot," the patient snarled, even as he struggled for breath. "Gimme a shot. No use a bein' 'ere if I can't get no bloody shot a' somethin'."
"That's not how things work here, Bill," Knightley responded calmly, scribbling in the chart before flipping it shut. "The only thing we'll give you is to get you down, not up."
Henrietta timidly extended the blood pressure cuff to Knightley, watching him wrap it efficiently around the patient's arm.
"His BP's low. 80 over 50. And we'll need blood tests."
"What do you suspect?" she questioned.
"Heroin. Though I doubt that's all he's on. Most street drugs are cut with other opiates."
"Like what?"
"Take your pick. It could be anything from hypnotics to arsenic. Heroin has a short half-life, ten to thirty minutes post injection, but it converts to morphine in the liver, and that's what we'll test for. Toxicity lasts for two, sometimes three hours. Respiratory infections are common among habitual drug users, and given the sound of his breathing, I also want him tested for a noncardiogenic pulmenary edima."
"Pulminary edima," Henrietta repeated, writing diligently. "Okay, Dr.
Knightley, but what if--"
"I wannit," hollered the patient. "I wannit. I wannit, and if you canna give it to me, I'll bloody well take it for me-self!" Still shaking, the patient balled up both fists and struck out, long limbs intent on colliding with whoever and whatever was in reach.
"Watch it," Knightley grunted, yanked Henrietta back a step and taking the force of the blow.
"Gimme it!" Bill shouted.
"George!" Henrietta screamed, terror paralyzing her as the patient flailed, long limbs kicking at Knightley.
"Henny, call security. And get me a vial of naloxone."
"But--"
"I've already called security," Willoughby snapped as he yanked the curtain back and dashed over to help Knightley by restraining the patient's other arm.
"Hen, if you can't be useful, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I--" Henrietta stuttered. "I--"
"Henrietta," Knightley interjected with severe, forceful calm. "I need 50
miligrams of naloxone. Now."
"Huh?"
"I've got it," huffed Cheryl, all business as she pushed past the frightened girl with a vial in her hand. She handed it to Knightley, watched him yank off the needle cap with crisp efficiency, measure out the dosage with a keen eye, and quickly inject it. The patient wilted. Slowly, Knightley loosened his grip,
checking his pulse.
"Cheryl, I also want you to pull the baseline from his last overdose. This isn't his first trip here." Knightley studied the patient. "It probably won't be his last."
"Also check the patient for hepatitis," Willoughby called out as Cheryl left them.
"Thanks, Willoughby," said Knightley, cracking tension from fingers that suddenly felt stiff.
"You're welcome. Get some ice on that eye," Willoughby advised, though he ruined the moment with a leer in Cheryl's wake and the declaration, "And I want my calendar back."
As for poor Henrietta, the young woman was huddled in one corner of the staff locker room, sniffling quietly as she blotted her tears. It was Knightley who eventually found her.
"I'm sorry, George," she sniffled.
"Don't be." Knightley crouched down beside her. "Are you okay?"
"I couldn't move. And then Willoughby and Cheryl stepped in, and I felt like such a fool. Dr. Willoughby's right. If I can't be any use to anyone at a time like that, I shouldn't even be here."
"You were frightened, Henrietta. The patient was under the influence. The pathology report came back as heroin laced with arsenic. You had every right to be scared."
"You weren't." Henrietta's eyes, already saturated with tears, turned guilty as she studied his black eye. "If you hadn't pushed me out of the way, who knows what would have happened? I don't know how to thank you for it."
"I wish you wouldn't. I'd do it again." He knelt in front of her. Despite his bruised eye, his mouth still curved to a warm, calm smile.
"You would?" Henrietta whispered.
"Yeah. I'd rather not see a woman get clocked." His mouth twitched. "Don't worry about me, okay? It's just a bruise. Nothing a steak from my freezer won't cure."
"For your eye?"
"For my stomach," he laughed. "It's nearly dinner time. My shift's up. I'm going to meet Emma. But after what happened, I couldn't leave without making sure you're alright. You are, aren't you? Should I call someone to sit with you?"
