Taming The Beastly MD

The coronary care unit at Boston General in the trendy North End was quiet for a Friday at dinnertime—no doubt the rowdy April weather outside was keeping many visitors at home—which meant that Rita Barone actually found five full minutes to steal away from the nurses’ station for a cup of bad coffee from the vending machine in the CCU waiting room. Coffee—even bad coffee—was her only hope to get her through the evening shift, one she hadn’t worked in months. After three years at Boston General, she had finally landed regular hours in the day shift, and only had to pull night hours now to cover for friends, like tonight, or to pick up extra Christmas money. Not that extra Christmas money was generally a big deal, since the Barones of Boston were never strapped for cash. But Rita was the kind of woman who liked to rest on her own laurels, and not the family’s, so she rarely, if ever, took advantage of the Barone family’s very fat coffers.

Three years, she reflected again as she watched the vending machine spit its dark-brown brew into a paper container that was in no way large enough to qualify for a respectable cup of coffee. In fact, it had been three years to the day today, she realized further. She had begun working at Boston General as a student nurse exactly two months before her June graduation from Boston University, and exactly one month following her twenty-second birthday. Now, at twenty-five, here she was celebrating her anniversary by being back on the evening shift.

She glanced down at her watch, then shook her head morosely. She’d only started two hours ago, and already she was hitting the caffeine. The six remaining hours had never seemed like such a long, looming stretch of time.

She kept a close eye on the too-full cup of coffee as she made her way back to the nurses’ station, then returned to her seat and set the hot brew to the side to cool a bit. Absently, she tucked a stray strand of dark-brown hair back into the thick French braid that fell to the base of her neck, then brushed at a stain of indistinguishable origin on the pants of her slate-blue scrubs. It wasn’t until she was reaching for a patient chart that she saw the small white package tucked sideways into her note slot on the desk.

And she battled a wave of apprehension that shimmied down her spine when she saw it.

It hadn’t been there when she’d gone for her coffee, because she’d had to reach into her mail slot to grab some of the spare change she always left there for the vending machines. So whoever had left it had done so just now, while she was gone. It was a small square box wrapped in white glossy paper, tied with a gold ribbon, obviously a gift. But instead of being delighted by such a surprise, Rita went cold inside. This was the third time she’d found a gift in her note slot wrapped in exactly this way. As always, when she looked for a note to accompany the gift, she didn’t find one. And, as always, that bothered her. A lot.

Okay, she admitted, she had been delighted the first time such a gift had shown up, on Valentine’s Day, two months ago—for all of a few hours. When she’d returned from lunch that day and found a tiny present tucked into her note slot, she’d been reluctantly enchanted, especially when she found that there was no note accompanying the gift to explain its presence. She’d been even more enchanted when she’d opened the box to find a small pin inside. It was a pewter heart, not much bigger than a postage stamp, wrapped diagonally with a gold Band-Aid. She’d thought it an appropriate gift for a cardiology nurse, and had immediately pinned the heart to the breast pocket of her scrubs, just above her name tag. Then she’d waited for the giver to come forward and identify him- or herself, and his or her reason for the gesture.

Of course, since the occasion on that first gift’s appearance was Valentine’s Day, her co-workers had proposed that Rita must have a secret admirer. Rita, naturally, had considered such a suggestion ridiculous. Grown men didn’t have secret crushes on grown women—not emotionally sound grown men, anyway. But her fellow nurses had insisted, and it hadn’t been long before the rumor mill at Boston General—an astoundingly active one—was churning out a story about Rita Barone’s secret admirer.

Who could it be? everyone wondered. One of the handsome new interns? A co-worker who was too shy to make his affections known? A former patient who felt his life had been saved by the lovely, dark-eyed, dark-haired cardiology nurse?

Although a number of people had remarked on the pin that day, none had claimed to be the one who gave it to Rita. Nor had any of her co-workers seen anyone put the gift in her note slot. So Rita began to wear the pin daily, certain that eventually someone would admit to having given it to her. Perhaps there was supposed to have been a card, but it had got lost somehow. Perhaps someone simply wanted to tease her a bit by leaving her curious for a few days before identifying himself as the giver. Perhaps the person was shy, in which case that shyness might be assuaged if the person saw her wearing the gift.

But in spite of Rita continually wearing the pin, and in spite of the number of comments she received about it, no one ever came forward.

The second gift had arrived in her note slot last month, on her birthday. Again, it had been wrapped in white, glossy paper with a gold ribbon, and again, it had appeared without a card or note. When Rita had opened that one, hoping perhaps it might offer some clue as to the identity of its giver, she had found inside an inexpensive silver charm bracelet with a dozen delicate little charms related to the nursing field. She’d been reluctantly pleased by it, too, but hadn’t quite been able to halt the feeling of foreboding that had accompanied her pleasure.

She’d told herself her apprehension was silly, that obviously she did have a secret admirer—and hey, why was that such a bad thing? Then she’d donned the charm bracelet, as well, hoping again to “out” the giver.

But again, no one came forth to claim the identity of Rita Barone’s secret admirer. No one came forth for any reason at all.

Now, as she eyed this latest gift with a mixture of hesitant pleasure and growing dread, she lifted her right hand to stroke the bandaged heart pin fastened, as it always was, on the pocket of her scrubs. When she did, the charm bracelet clinked merrily on her right wrist.

Now the mysterious giver had struck again, had left her a third gift—on the third anniversary of her having started work at Boston General.

Whoever it was, she realized then, was commemorating special occasions and events—first Valentine’s Day, then her birthday, and now the anniversary of her first day at work. It must be someone who worked at the hospital, she thought. And it must be a secret admirer—for lack of a better ID. There were too many romantic overtones for it not to be. Still, she couldn’t begin to imagine who might be leaving her gifts like this. She’d noticed not one hint of interest from anyone of the opposite sex, absolutely no clue that there was a man out there who regarded her as anything more than another human being who inhabited the same planet. Not at work, and not anywhere else, either.

Not unless she was overlooking any hints and clues a man might be giving out, which she supposed was possible, since she’d really never been much interested in the opposite sex. Her sisters Gina and Maria often told her she was so focused on her work that she was missing out on everything else life had to offer, including romance.

Of course, Rita didn’t necessarily disagree with that. Her work was very important to her. More important, she admitted, than anything else. Except for family, of course. The Barones were a close-knit bunch, and family would always come first for all of them. But Rita had never wanted to be anything but a nurse, ever since she was a child, and the job gave her more satisfaction and fulfillment than she could imagine receiving anywhere else. She helped save lives here at the hospital. What could possibly be more important than that?

Well, there was saving her own life, Gina would always argue when Rita pointed that out, seeing as how Rita didn’t much have one outside work. And there was living her life, Maria would chime in, the one outside work, anyway. Whenever her sisters offered their opinions in such a way, Rita would blithely remind them that her work was her life, and she enjoyed it very much, thanks. And she truly did believe it was enough. She had a full, and very satisfying, life without having to wade through all the politics and games of a romantic relationship—especially a workplace romance.

Still, she thought now as she gingerly fingered the third little white package, it would be nice to discover who was leaving the gifts for her. If nothing else, she could rest easy knowing there was nothing more to it than someone having a bit of fun. Because she just couldn’t quite shake the sensation that there was something a bit sinister about all this anonymous gift-giving, even if the gifts in question had been totally benign.

Rita checked one more time to see if there was a card or note to accompany the gift but, not surprisingly, she found none. So, inhaling a deep breath, she tucked her finger under the gold ribbon and slowly slid it off. Then she carefully peeled back the white paper. Just as it had been with the previous two gifts, the box was plain and white, too, with no markings that might identify where the gift had been purchased. Placing it cautiously on the desk, Rita lifted the lid, then pushed aside a fold of tissue paper.

“Oh, my,” she said softly, reverently, when she saw what was inside. A small, cut-crystal heart winked merrily at her from its cushion of tissue in the box, shattering the harsh fluorescent overhead light into a billion kaleidoscopic colors. It was meant, she supposed, to be a paperweight. Somehow, though, it was much too beautiful for so functional a purpose.

A crystal heart, she remarked again. Was it a symbol of what she did for a living, caring for a fragile organ? Or a symbol of the giver’s fragile feelings for her? And how would she ever know if the giver never came forward? And why wouldn’t he? It had been two months since that first gift had appeared. Surely, by now, he was ready to make himself known. Unless…

Unless his intentions were less than honorable.

“Have you nothing better to do with your time, Ms. Barone, than enjoy an extended coffee break?”

Rita jumped at the gruffly offered question, not so much because of the question itself—unfair as it was—but because the voice belonged to Dr. Matthew Grayson. In addition to his medical skills, he was renowned for his no-nonsense approach to his work.

And also because of his complete intolerance for anything bordering on fun.

Tall, dark and brooding, that was Dr. Grayson. All the nurses and other doctors thought so. And most steered clear of him whenever they could, because they didn’t want to get caught in the storm swirling in the dark clouds that always seemed to surround him. Rita, though, had always thought him rather intriguing. Nobody was born grouchy and aloof, she reasoned. Something had to happen in a person’s life to make him that way. And Rita couldn’t help wondering what had happened in Matthew Grayson’s.

She also couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with the scars he bore on his left cheek and neck. The worst of them were a trio of nearly straight lines that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw—three parallel stripes, roughly a half inch apart and three inches in length.

Automatically she slammed the lid back down on the box she had just opened. For some reason, she didn’t want Dr. Grayson to know about her secret admirer—if admiring was indeed what was behind the mysterious gifts. As discreetly as she could, she slid the box back into her note slot, tossed the white wrapping paper and gold ribbon into the wastebasket beneath her desk, and then turned in her chair to face him.

Big mistake, she realized immediately. Because being seated while he was standing left Rita gazing at a part of Dr. Grayson she really shouldn’t be gazing at.

“Dr. Grayson,” she said as she abruptly stood, telling herself she was only imagining the breathless quality her voice seemed to have suddenly adopted. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Obviously,” he replied wryly.

“And I wasn’t enjoying a coffee break,” she assured him.

He gazed pointedly at the cup sitting before her chair.

“Okay, yes, I was having coffee,” she conceded. “But I wasn’t enjoying it. It’s from the vending machine,” she added meaningfully.

Dr. Grayson, however, evidently didn’t catch her meaning, because he only continued to scowl at her. Granted, it was kind of a handsome scowl, what with those dreamy green eyes and that full, luscious-looking mouth, but it was a scowl nonetheless. So Rita countered with the most dazzling smile she could conjure from her ample arsenal. She knew it made him uncomfortable to be smiled at. Probably, she thought, because he didn’t know how to smile back. In fact, she’d never seen him smile. And, true to her supposition—and his own personality—Dr. Grayson only deepened his scowl. So Rita smiled even more dazzlingly, this time batting her eyelashes playfully.

There, she thought triumphantly. Take that, Dr. Grayson.

But instead of being immobilized by her mischievous warfare, Dr. Grayson only looked more ferocious. So, with an imperceptible sigh, Rita surrendered.

Point to Dr. Grayson.

“Rita,” he said in a tone of voice that indicated he wanted to start all over again and pretend the last few moments hadn’t happened, which was fine with her, “we’ve just admitted a new patient who will be arriving in CCU shortly, a Mr. Harold Asgaard. He’s scheduled for surgery at seven in the morning, but I want him monitored closely throughout the evening and all through the night.”

Somehow, Rita refrained from a salute. Still, she dutifully replied, “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“Good.”

“Anything else?” she asked when he added nothing more. She found it odd that he’d sought her out just to tell her to closely monitor a patient who was scheduled for surgery in the morning. That was standard operating procedure in CCU.

Dr. Grayson dropped his gaze to the chart he held in one hand, began scanning it, then shook his head. “No, I think that’s all for now. You’re on evening shift tonight?” he asked, stating the obvious, still scanning the chart, as if he were uncomfortable meeting her gaze.

“Um, yes,” Rita replied in light of the obvious.

“Covering for Nancy?”

“Rosemary, actually,” Rita said. “Her great-grandmother’s one-hundredth birthday party is tonight, so she and I traded off today. Nancy’s left the unit. She transferred to pediatrics last week.”

Dr. Grayson nodded, as if just now remembering, and continued to scan the chart. Continued to avoid Rita’s gaze. “That’s right,” he said absently. “I’d forgotten.”