The Baby Doctors

“How long have you been there?” Matthew asked.

“Long enough for you to finish the article about how Compassionate Systems will transform the delivery of medical care to the peninsula…and to scan the society column where you’d hoped to find at least your name, if not a picture of you hobnobbing with the Port Hamilton elite at the Elk’s Club ball.”

He laughed. “I’m so damn disappointed. I thought reindeer antlers glued to my scrub cap would guarantee a spot on the front page. What the hell do I have to do?”

“Dunno.” Sarah was laughing, too. “Be more elk-like.”

They sat there for a minute or so just grinning at each other until Sarah broke off a piece of his tortilla and scooped up some rice. “I’ve been thinking. It’s not every day I apologise, but I’m about to do it, so don’t make it more difficult. The words are practically choking me already.”

“On the other hand, it could be the tortilla.”

“I did kind of get on my soapbox, and I’m –” she swallowed “ –sor-sorry.”

“I heard it.” He glanced around the cafeteria. “Where’s the media when you need them?”

She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. “OK, so now’s where you tell me you’ve thought things over and you’re ready to join forces with me.”

Dear Reader,

How many of us still remember our first “love”? Was it the freckled boy who teased you unmercifully in primary school? A high-school crush? The guy you met in college? Chances are that even if you remember exactly who he was, he was not the man you eventually married. People change, and the special someone who made your heart race in your teens probably wouldn’t even raise a flutter today. On the other hand, maybe he would. Sarah, the heroine of The Baby Doctors, never forgot her first love, Matthew. Marriages to other people and years apart never quite succeeded in dimming her love.

I hope you enjoy The Baby Doctors, and I would love to hear your stories of that guy you never quite forgot. Drop me a line at Janice Macdonald, PMB 101, 136 E 8th Street, Port Angeles, WA, 98362, USA or e-mail me at janicemacdonald.com. You might also check out my new website, travelingromancewriter.com, for details on my books and chronicles from recent travels.

Best wishes,

Janice Macdonald

The Baby Doctors

JANICE MACDONALD

MILLS & BOON

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To Barbara and Lee for their inspiration, and to the Fishers for their hospitality and turkey burgers!

CHAPTER ONE

THE GUY SELLING medicinal herbs at the Port Hamilton farmer’s market had shoulder-length hair, a small stud in his nostril and the palest blue eyes Sarah had ever seen. The lack of color disconcerted her. Something about the way the light hit them made it difficult to tell whether he was looking directly at her or at something over her shoulder.

His T-shirt read Stop The War On Drugs, but when he noticed her trying to read the small print, he stopped in the middle of a discourse on the health-giving properties of the dandelions leaves he was holding to launch into another on the kind of drugs he was trying to stop.

“Big Brother pharmaceutical companies,” he said, his English accent becoming more pronounced as he spoke. “If you’re popping pills you’ve bought from the drugstore, you’re not really in touch with nature, and my goal, simply put, is to reconnect people’s consciousness with the environment.” He waved his hand at the row of baskets brimming with plants. “Nature’s pharmacy,” he said. “Echinacea, Saint-John’s-wort, calendula. Atropa belladonna—”

“Commonly known as deadly nightshade,” Sarah said.

He smiled. “Ah, a gardening enthusiast.”

“A medical doctor, actually,” Sarah’s mother, Rose, said, materializing at Sarah’s side. “She’s been practicing in Central America for the past fifteen years. And, let me tell you, she knows a thing or two about woo-woo medicine.”

Sarah shot Rose a glance. “A focus on prevention and well-being rather than disease is not woo-woo medicine.” She turned back to the guy, whose spare, almost emaciated frame suggested nature’s pharmacy probably did double duty as his pantry. “My mother’s a doctor, too.” She jerked her head at Rose. “Runs in the family. Except my mother’s the conventional kind.”

“I’d hardly say that,” Rose replied.

“I was referring to your profession. She’s a dermatologist,” Sarah said, mostly to mollify Rose, who disliked being thought of as conventional in any way, except perhaps in her approach to medicine.

“Right.” He stuck out his hand and directed his pale eyes at Sarah. “Curt Hudelson.”

“Sarah Benedict.” She shook his hand. “And my mother, Rose Benedict. I’m really interested in what you’re doing. It ties in with the sort of thing I’m planning, an integrated approach that combines both conventional and alternative medicine.”

He nodded approvingly. “Right, well, we definitely need more of your type here on the peninsula before big medicine kills everyone off.” As he talked, a young woman who had been waiting on customers came over to stand beside him and he put his arm around her shoulders. “My girlfriend, Debbi. We farm a piece of land on the west end. These two ladies are doctors,” he said. “Tell them how we cleared up your asthma with natural stuff.”

Debbi smiled. “I used to get these really bad attacks, I was always at the E.R. getting treatments so I could breathe and I never went anywhere without my inhaler. Then I met Curt. I haven’t had a bad attack since.” She reached into a small tin box on the wooden counter, withdrew a card and handed it to Sarah. “I also make cosmetics. Natural.”

“Curly Q House of Hair,” Sarah read.

“Well, that’s where I work right now,” Debbi said. “But I’m probably going to quit pretty soon. It’s too far to drive. Plus, Curt needs help on the farm. His business is really growing.”

“Literally.” Curt turned to Debbi. “Tell Sarah about Alli.”

Debbi’s smile faded. “Well, that’s kind of different.”

“No, it isn’t.” He addressed Sarah, “Our daughter was having intestinal problems, which, naturally, Dr. Big Medicine diagnosed as kidney failure and, left to his own devices, would have had her hooked up to a dialysis machine. And how was she this morning, Debbi?”

“Fine, but—”

“Exactly.”

Rose cleared her throat. “Ready, Sarah?”

“Come out and see my gardens sometime,” Curt said. “Debbi and I had intended to organize them according to the various systems of the body, but then it got a wee bit too complicated, so now we have them grouped into historic herbal remedies, folk medicine, homoeopathic medicinals and plants that are currently under investigation by drug companies.”

“Crackpot,” Rose muttered after Sarah had taken down his address and she and Rose were weaving their way back through the crowd toward the car. “Perfect example of how a little medical knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

Sarah shrugged. “I’d be interested in seeing what they’re doing.”

“Probably growing marijuana,” Rose said.

“Nothing like an open mind.”

They walked along in silence for a while. “I thought you might have changed, being away all this time,” Rose said finally. “Maturity, and so forth but you’re still like just like your father.”

“Idealistic and humanistic?”

“Impractical and naive, not that there isn’t room for some of this hippy-dippy stuff,” she amended as they reached her ancient Volvo, parked behind the courthouse, “but it does seem to attract the fringe element.”

“In the same way that conventional medicine seems to attract those with an unhealthy interest in making money?”

“Get in the car,” Rose snapped.

“I ANSWERED A PAGE for you, Dr. Cameron,” one of the nurses said, opening the door to the O.R. where Matthew had just finished surgery.

“Who was it?”

“Administration. Mr. Heidenreich said he had you down on his calendar at ten. I told him you had an emergency surgery.”

“Thanks.” Matthew removed his blue cotton cap, pulled on a white lab coat over his scrubs and started down the corridor. He glanced at his watch—twenty after. Emergency surgery was an acceptable excuse for arriving late, but these days he was late for everything.

“Coffee?” Jim Heidenreich asked as Matthew walked into the inner sanctum. “Georgia just made a fresh pot.”

“No thanks.” Matt dropped into a chair opposite. A small, dapper man with sparse white hair, Jim had aged visibly in the six months since Compassionate Medical Systems had initiated efforts to buy out Peninsular Memorial.

“One of the nurses said there was someone outside SuperShop yesterday getting signatures,” Matthew told his boss, then instantly regretted the remark. Jim didn’t need anyone confirming what he already knew: That some anonymous conglomerate from Seattle taking over the hospital where just about everyone here had been born, was about as welcome as learning that Port Hamilton High’s football team had lost to Olympia. No one wanted outsiders taking over the hospital.

“Take a look at this.” Jim reached into his desk and brought out a glossy press kit. “Compassionate Medical went into a one-hundred-twenty-five-bed hospital in Oregon—same size as ours and in the same financial hole. They were welcomed with open arms. Happy to have CMS come in… like a guardian angel when you think about it. They provide the capital, recruit physicians. They’ve got the managed care expertise, the experience running rural facilities…”

Matt shrugged. “On the other hand, I know a guy in Virginia—we were in medical school together. His local hospital was gobbled up by—” he gestured at the press kit “—one of these conglomerates. He’s frustrated as hell by it all. Endless paperwork, restrictions on where he refers patients. Diagnostic workups according to cost.”

“What’s the alternative?”

Matt shook his head. He’d pulled together a group of physicians with the idea that among them, they would raise enough capital to counter CMS’s offer. Still, it would be difficult to pull off. Peninsula was drowning in red ink and none of the medical staff were exactly rolling in money. You practiced medicine on the peninsula because you loved the natural beauty and small-town lifestyle, not because you expected to make money. He tried to imagine his ex-wife’s reaction if he approached her about selling the home she and Lucy lived in. The home he still made payments on.

“I had a meeting with human resources this morning,” Jim said. “Their concern was lost jobs. Naturally. And the rumor mill is running full-time. I managed to convince them that for the first two years no jobs would be cut. CMS guaranteed it.”

“And after that?”

“Two years is a long time.

“The physicians will walk,” Matt said. “I’ve heard that from almost everyone. They’ll move off the peninsula if they have to.”

“Not if you come around.”

Matthew blinked. “If I—”

“Matt, if you get behind this takeover, the other physicians will fall in step. You know that.”

“I can’t, Jim. You know that.”

The administrator shifted some papers around on his desk. “Where were you last weekend?” He looked directly at Matthew. “Your daughter’s birthday, wasn’t it? Thirteenth?”

“Fourteenth. Your point?”

“My point is that you were in Seattle performing surgery. Sure, you could have referred the kid like any other physician would have done, but not you. The kid’s your patient and you’re going to see it all the way through. Your patient, your responsibility.”

“So?”

“So your daughter spent her birthday without her father. She’s your responsibility, too, Matt.”

“Sorry.” Matthew folded his arms. “You’re losing me.”

“If we’d had the setup, the sophisticated equipment, you could have done the surgery here. If we’d had the surgical support staff, you could have done the surgery here. If—”

“But we don’t.”

“I’m not finished. That’s last weekend we were talking about. What about last night?”

Matthew rubbed his neck.

“I’ll tell you. You were right here, three floors below doing an emergency appendectomy. And today, same thing.” He got up and walked to the window. “You’re one surgeon, Matt. A terrific one, but you’re not Superman. You need a day off every once in a while. And that’s never going to happen the way things are right now. Compassionate Medical Systems is not only going to save this hospital from going under, it might save you from burning yourself out before you reach fifty.”

“It’s not the answer, Jim.”

“Well, when you figure out what the answer is, you let me know. But I won’t hold my breath. You need to take a cold hard look at the way things are right now. Wanting things to work as they always have isn’t enough.”

An hour later, scrubbing up for surgery, Matthew was still hearing Heidenreich’s words.

CHAPTER TWO

UNTIL ROSE BROKE with tradition by relocating three generations of Benedicts had been practicing medicine in Port Hamilton from the same red barn of a house on Georgianna Street, one block from the waterfront. Sarah’s father had been a general practitioner, seeing patients until the day he dropped dead of a heart attack while Sarah was still in high school.

But all that was changing, Sarah thought, as she took an early-morning walk through town on her way to see Matthew at the hospital. Empty storefronts now dotted Port Hamilton’s once thriving business district. In the years since she’d been away, businesses had come and gone. What was once Betty’s Bakery was now Mombasa Coffee with three-dollar cappuccinos and biscotti in jars on the glass-topped counter.

The Curly Q House of Hair where Debbi worked had once been the old Wharf house. Seeing it now, Sarah tried to recall how old she’d been when she found out that it was going to be demolished to make way for a row of stores. Twelve? Thirteen? She’d tried to enlist Matthew in her cause.

“Can’t they see it’s part of the history of Port Hamilton?” she’d wanted to know. And he’d pointed out the light shining through the warped and rotted boards and the evidence of termites everywhere.

Undeterred, she’d gone from door to door with a petition protesting the destruction.

Maybe Rose was right; maybe she was a dreamer. She’d always had tons of ideas for how things could be better. And not just in Port Hamilton. Deep inside, she had always had this quest for the answer to what would really make her life meaningful. She’d read it in a book, find inspiration in an incredible poem or experience something profound that would totally change everything. Or she’d get on a self-improvement kick about this or that. Yoga, fasting. Whatever. Age imparted some wisdom and she’d learned to keep most of these “answers” to herself. As a kid she’d had no such constraints. Her friend Elizabeth’s mom had called her cute and said she wished Elizabeth cared about such things. Rose had called her overly idealistic.

“Life’s the way it is,” Rose would say. “Things change. Nothing’s perfect. Accept it and move on.” Rose now practiced from an office in an ugly, mustard-colored cement-slab complex on the road out of town. Sarah thought wistfully of the big airy waiting room in the old house, the mismatched chairs lined up around the walls, a table in the middle stacked with kids’ books, most of them her discards. The battered trunk of toys she’d sometimes sneak down to play with after the offices were closed for the day.

According to Rose the house had been inefficient. More practical to have a separate office.

“But I have good memories of that consulting room,” Sarah had said. “Daddy coming up to the kitchen for lunch—”

“His damn seafood chowders.” Rose had rolled her eyes. “The consulting rooms reeked of squid.”

“What I remember,” Sarah had countered, “was how much more personal it seemed. You and Daddy were part of the community, not sterile strangers in white coats. I think it had something to do with being in the house.”

But Rose had been adamant. “Medicine isn’t the same as it was when your father and I practiced together. It’s much more sophisticated. Diagnostic tests have to be done right away…no room for sentiment these days.”

Sarah pictured Rose, long gray hair curled into an untidy bun, her chunky sweaters, tweed skirts and gray flannel trousers. The thought occurred to her that one day she would probably look just like Rose. She made a mental note to drop by Curly Q, maybe see what Debbi could do. Debbi and her pale-eyed medicinal gardener boyfriend. Somewhere between Rose the traditionalist and Curt, nature’s pharmacist, there had to be a middle ground that would be just right.

Which was exactly the case she intended to present to Matthew, she thought as she reached the hospital.

The receptionist in the administrative suite looked young enough that Sarah wondered whether she might have babysat her at one time. Behind her were three doors, all closed, with frosted-glass windows. Matthew’s name was on the middle door, underneath the title Medical Director.

“I’m here to see Dr. Cameron,” Sarah said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Sarah smiled. Her palms were sweating. She knew that if she dodged into a restroom to check her teeth for lipstick or her eyelids for rivulets of the Tender Taupe shadow she’d bought on sale at Gottschalks along with the tube of Black Velvet mascara, she would find damp patches at the armpits of the beige Ann Taylor blazer, also bought in the same sale. All purchased on an impulsive and, she realized now, misguided thought that if she looked businesslike as she presented her plan it would seem less like one of the old Sarah’s wild-eyed schemes and more worthy of Matthew’s professional consideration.

“Matthew and I are old friends,” she told the receptionist. She’d considered calling for an appointment, but…come on, she’d known Matthew since they played in the nursery-school sandbox together. When he was forever trying to pour sand down her top. “Could you just let him know I’m here? Sarah. Benedict.” She cleared her throat. “Dr. Benedict, that would be.”

The receptionist smiled. “Unfortunately, Dr. Cameron is doing an emergency surgery. I’m not sure how long he’ll be. Can I leave him a message?”

“I’ll just give him a call,” she said. “No, wait…” She delved into her purse, found a grocery receipt and scribbled a message on the back. Not very elegant, but it put the ball in his court, which she preferred. “If you could just stick this on his desk.”

Outside, walking down the corridor again, she listened to the click of her heels on the linoleum. Two nurses in blue scrubs walked by. One of them, tall and blond with boobs like a shelf, smiled uncertainly as though Sarah was someone she might know. Port Hamilton was small enough and isolated enough, sitting at the tip of the Olympic Peninsula, that pretty much everyone knew everyone. But this Sarah with her makeup and power suit was not the bohemian Birkenstock Sarah who had skulked off to Central America after being scorned by her—

“Sarah.” The nurse stopped in her tracks. “Wow. When did you get back?”

“Betsy.” Her archenemy in high school. She was a good fifty pounds heavier than Sarah remembered. “Hi.”

Betsy’s smile faded. “I’m sorry about your husband. I read about it in the paper, and then I saw your mother and she told me. What a tragedy, huh?”

“Thanks.” Frozen, feeling awkward by the sympathy she saw in Betsy’s eyes, Sarah struggled for the right thing to say. “Anyway, I’m… I have to go so—”

“Well, hey, it’s great to see you again.” She hugged Sarah, then pulled back to look at her. “Listen, I know it’s got to be tough. If you ever need to talk to someone, call me. I’m in the phone book. My last name’s Becker now. I married Vinny. Remember him?”

She would be okay, Sarah thought as she continued on. Once she was working again, seeing patients, getting back into the swing of things. She would find a place to live, no matter how much Rose begged her to move back home. She would feel strong and whole again, discover a place where the sympathy and pity, no matter how well intended, would no longer make her want to crawl into a hole and hide.

MATTHEW WAS BACK in his office when his secretary put a call through from his daughter reminding him that the school play was at seven and if he didn’t want her to hate him for the rest of her life, he’d better be there.

One elbow on the desk, chin propped in his hand, Matthew studied the framed picture of her—one of many that filled his office—and grinned. Lucy was fourteen, a budding actress and, although she was always listing ways in which he wasn’t the perfect father she felt entitled to, he loved her as much as any father possibly could. The prospect of having more free time to spend with her was one of the more compelling reasons to join CMS.

“I’m supposed to have tarot cards,” Lucy said. “Mom said she’d pick some up, but she forgot. Could you get some for me? Please?” she added in her wheedling voice. “I really, really need them.”

Remembering she was a Gypsy in the play, he asked, “Something to do with fortune-telling?”

“They tell you stuff that happened and what’s going to happen in the future. You spread them out in a cross and then you read them. Listen, I’ve got to go. Don’t forget them, okay?”

“I won’t,” Matthew said. After he hung up, the receptionist—she was very new, very young, and he could never remember her name—stuck her head around the door.

“This lady came in to see you. She left a note, but—” she gestured to his desk, piled high with papers and journals and more than a few empty coffee cups “—I thought you might miss it. It’s on the back of that Safeway receipt right there.”

“Thanks.” Matthew picked up the receipt and glanced at the back.

He saw the familiar scrawl and laughed.

The note read: “So where the hell were you at four o’clock this afternoon anyway?”

No signature. It wasn’t necessary.

Sarah.

BY THE TIME she left the hospital and walked back into town, it was not quite eleven, too early for lunch. With nothing more pressing to do, Sarah decided to stop by Curly Q. Maybe work up the nerve to get her hair all lopped off and learn a little more about Debbi and Curt’s magical medicinal garden.

The blonde who checked her in wore heart-shaped earrings and a diamond in her left nostril. The entire shop was awash in red paper hearts. Up the walls, around mirrors and across the top of the reception desk, where they competed with a massive arrangement of red balloons bobbing amidst pink carnations.

“Must be Saint Patrick’s Day,” Sarah joked.

The girl gave her a long look. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

Sarah smiled. “I wondered if Debbi is available.”

The blonde regarded Sarah doubtfully. “Are you a client of hers?”

“Not yet.”

Moments later she was escorted to a chair at the far end of the room and seated before a mirror. A towel was draped around her shoulders. Debbi would be with her in a few minutes, she was told. A blond stylist to Sarah’s left, in red jeans and a fluffy white sweater, was telling a customer that Valentine’s Day was the sole reason more babies were born in November than in any other month. To her right, the topic was those clueless types who walk into restaurants on Valentine’s Day without reservations expecting to get a table. “That’s my husband,” someone said. “We’re going to end up eating pizza tonight, just like we did last year.”