Fools Rush In. Kristan Higgins

and lay his head on my chest.

      “No, Mr. Glover! Please let go!” I tried to sound authoritative. It had no effect. I wriggled a little, trying to free my arms. He gave a happy moan and rubbed against me.

      “Hey! Stop it!” I said, more loudly. “Mr. Glover, please!” Though he weighed no more than one hundred and fifty pounds, he was wiry. And humming. “Mr. Glover, please let go. Right now. This is very inappropriate.” I tried to twist away, which only seemed to excite him more. He giggled. Shit! I was the doctor, which meant I couldn’t exactly knee him in the groin. “Mr. Glover!” My mind raced furiously, trying to think of how we’d been taught to handle this sort of thing in med school. Call Security was the best I could come up with.

      My patient began to sing softly. “I saw her today at the recep-tion…”

      “Mr. Glover, stop this right now! I mean it!” I managed to liberate my left arm, and gave him a tentative shove, trying to extricate myself without breaking his brittle bones. He didn’t notice. Wincing, I tentatively pulled on a wispy strand of his thin white hair. The Hippocratic oath echoed in my mind. First, do no harm. Mr. Glover didn’t notice, his song continuing, “At her feet was…a footloose ma-an…”

      There was drool on my new sweater. Enough! “Excuse me!” I yelled. “I need some help in here!”

      I heard footsteps squeaking down the corridor, and in came Stephanie, looking ever so pleased to see me in Mr. Glover’s python grip. And right behind her stood Joe Carpenter. Of course.

      “Is there a problem, Doctor?” Stephanie asked innocently.

      “You can’t always get what you wa-ant,” Mr. Glover crooned.

      “Give me a hand here,” I ground out.

      “Oh, Mr. Glover, you know you shouldn’t be doing that,” Stephanie said calmly. She pried his hands off me and calmly unwound him from my waist. I took a step back and tried not to shudder. Straightening my sweater, knowing my face was beet-red, I retrieved my stethoscope, which had fallen during the unorthodox exam. Joe looked on in amusement.

      “Hey, Millie. You okay?” he said, not unkindly.

      “Oh, sure, you know, just getting to know the clients here,” I babbled. “Quite intimately, in fact.” Not too bad for a woman with an octogenarian’s saliva on her chest. Joe smiled.

      “So sorry, Dr. Barnes,” Stephanie said smirking as she helped Mr. Glover off the table. “Are you all finished here?”

      “Um, yes. Thanks, Stephanie.” She gave me an evil smile and led Mr. Glover from the room.

      “Goodbye, my dear,” he said, waving. “Thank you!”

      “Uh, bye, Mr. Glover,” I answered. To Joe I said, “To think, I get to do this every week.”

      “Oh, yeah? Are you working here?” Joe asked with his accident-causing smile. Finally, the reality of his presence rocketed into my nervous system, and warmth filled my body. God, his golden lashes were so long.

      “Filling in for Dr. Whitaker,” I answered, sounding a little breathy. “Today was my first day. What a wacky thing to happen. Old coot.” We walked down the hall together, and I remembered to feign astonishment at his presence at OCSC. “But what are you doing here, Joe?” I peeked up at his glorious cheekbones.

      “I’m doing some work here, didn’t you know?” He gave me a sideways grin, and my loins fired up.

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “Didn’t you see my truck in the parking lot? I thought I saw you park behind me.” He pointed out the window to the parking lot, where my car was practically mounting his truck.

      “Oh, of course!” I said, blushing. “Stupid of me,” I muttered.

      “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around, huh, Millie?” He smiled again, and I forgot my stupidity.

      “You bet, Joe. Take care. And thanks!”

      I watched him walk away. The view was magnificent. And the plan was working.

      CHAPTER SIX

      ON APRIL FOOL’S DAY, I began work at the Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic. It was a small facility in Wellfleet, located right on Route 6, in a little strip mall with ample parking. Our neighbors were a T-shirt-and-gift shop, a video/liquor store and a take-out fried-seafood place. I would have to be wary of that last one.

      I would be working at the clinic full-time, though my hours would vary. It was up to the other doctor and me to split the time as we liked; we would each cover a shift. The clinic was open from eight in the morning to ten at night, so even the late shift wasn’t too bad. We’d have a nurse and an administrative assistant for the day shift; after six, it would just be the doc and a temp to fill out paperwork and deal with the phones. A nurse would be on call if things got really busy. With any real emergencies or critically ill cases, we’d ship the patients down to Hyannis. Aside from basic X-ray and ultrasound equipment and an electrocardiograph, we were pretty much bare bones.

      I hadn’t met the other doc yet but was looking forward to it. I had made some really good friends during my residency, but the closest one was in Dorchester, where she worked at an inner-city hospital. Hopefully my fellow clinic doctor would become a buddy, too.

      The Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic was furnished in the same generic, soulless design of thousands of doctors’ offices. The waiting room featured bland blue chairs, six in all, covered in nubby, uncomfortable fabric. Sand-colored carpeting. Blurry floral prints on the walls to soothe our patients’ strained nerves. Punishing fluorescent lights to agitate said nerves. Coffee table with fake plant on it. Children’s corner, with cardboard box of cast-off toys. Counter where patient must stand and be ignored by receptionist for at least three minutes before being acknowledged. (That actually isn’t protocol…it’s just something I’ve noticed.) And beyond the counter, two exam rooms, the X-ray area and an office. Could have been on the Cape, could have been in Arizona.

      We weren’t actually open for business today; it was more of an orientation. As Cape Cod Hospital officially ran the clinic, a representative was there to fill us in on paperwork, procedure and protocol. The three Ps, as she’d said brightly on the phone. The other employees were already seated.

      “You must be Dr. Barnes,” an attractive woman in her forties greeted me, extending her hand. “I’m Juanita Ortiz from the hospital. We spoke on the phone.”

      “It’s so nice to meet you,” I answered. She wore a light gray suit, the skirt short and slim, showing off her long, toned legs. A pink-and-gray scarf circled her neck, and I made a mental note to try that. I myself wore a generic pair of tan slacks and a cream-colored blouse, which I had pulled out of the waistband a bit to camouflage my lack of waist.

      “This is Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi,” she said, the endless syllables rolling effortlessly off her tongue as she indicated a very short, bald Indian man of indeterminate age. Bala…Bala…Balasin…

      “Doctor,” I said, extending my hand automatically. He took my hand and shook it gingerly, giving me a nod.

      “I’ve heard you and Mrs. Doyle know each other,” Juanita continued, indicating the plump, smiling woman next to Dr. B. I grinned and leaned over, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Jill Doyle was one of my mom’s oldest pals, and I had been thrilled when I’d heard that Jill would be working here. She was chatty and comforting, organized and energetic…a perfect nurse, I would wager.

      “And this is Sienna,” Juanita finished, pointing to a young woman who looked no more than fifteen years old. Ah, I thought. Some flavor. Sienna had pink streaks in her brown hair, liquid black eyeliner and bloodred lipstick the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my makeover. Her ears were studded with punishing-looking hoops and chunky metal fragments, none of which could really be called an earring. She smiled and idly kicked her Doc Martens against the chair.

      “So!” Juanita