Family Practice. Judy Duarte

only to see many of the same people still waiting. “How did you manage to take cuts?”

      She smiled. “Dr. Weldon was visiting a patient on the fourth floor. When I called his service, they had him paged.”

      Of course, Michael thought, as he got to his feet, careful not to wake Ashley. That made sense. He followed Kara, who followed the uniformed nurse to one of several cribs provided for the youngest ER patients.

      “Dr. Weldon will be right in,” the nurse said. “Since the baby’s sleeping, why don’t you just hold her until he comes. They’ll be poking and prodding her soon enough.”

      Michael glanced down at little Ashley. It seemed a shame to wake her, but he knew the routine. And the procedure. She’d be strapped to a papoose board that would restrict her movements, and she wouldn’t like it at all. He held her close, wishing he could spare her the pain and discomfort and knowing he couldn’t.

      Dr. Weldon approached Kara and drew the curtain around the crib, providing what little privacy the ER could offer. Weldon had a paternal, grandfatherly appearance, with bushy white hair, a bit of a potbelly and ruddy cheeks. “Well, well,” he began in a patronizing fashion. “What happened?”

      “She pulled herself up on the coffee table, then lost her balance. She hit her head on the corner.”

      “Did she lose consciousness?” he asked.

      She’s all right, Michael wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. This wasn’t his case. It wasn’t his kid. He was just the neighbor who’d brought Kara and the baby to the hospital. Keep it simple. Stay detached.

      “No, but she sure did cry,” Kara said. “You should have seen the blood. She about scared the liver out of me and Lizzie.”

      “I’ll bet she did,” Weldon said. He made a cursory exam of Ashley’s wound then looked into Michael’s eyes. He lifted a white bushy brow and took on more of the grandfatherly persona Michael had first recognized. “I’m Dr. Weldon.” As his eyes caught Michael’s, recognition flickered. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

      “I don’t think so,” Michael said.

      “Michael isn’t from around here,” Kara said. “But he has first-aid training. He works at a hospital.”

      “Is that right?” Weldon said, his eyes clear and piercing, like those of a headmaster at an exclusive, all-boys boarding school. Like those of old Iron Bones at Brynwood Hall, where Michael had been sent at the age of eight.

      Michael had the strange urge to shuffle his feet and hang his head like an errant schoolboy on the verge of expulsion. Instead, he straightened. Hell, he wasn’t hiding from anything. What did it matter if the older doctor knew who he was? As a rule, doctors had a code of ethics when dealing with each other. Michael doubted Weldon would rush out and call some tabloid reporter and offer an interview for a price. “My name is Michael Harper, but I doubt we’ve ever met.”

      The perusal was over as quickly as it began. Dr. Weldon did an admirable job stitching Ashley’s wound, in spite of the tears of protest—both Ashley’s and Kara’s. Michael had to smile at Kara’s stricken expression as the doctor deftly sutured Ashley’s face as good as any hot-shot plastic surgeon could have done. Weldon’s training undoubtedly came from years of experience.

      The elderly doctor released Ashley from the papoose board that had secured her, allowing Kara to comfort the crying baby, who was more angry at being confined than in pain from the wound or its suturing.

      “How is Lizzie feeling?” Weldon asked Kara as he removed his gloves.

      “All right, I suppose.” She held Ashley close, cooing to her and patting her back like a seasoned mother. “She complains about the number of pills you’ve got her taking.”

      “She needs them all,” Weldon said. “I’ll swing by on my way home tonight. I want to take her blood pressure when she’s at home and relaxed.”

      Michael had wondered whether Ashley’s doctor was a pediatrician. Now his question had been answered. He was a general practitioner. And probably a darn good one. The kind they didn’t make anymore.

      “Thank you, Doctor,” Kara said.

      “That’s what I’m here for,” Weldon replied. Then he turned to Michael, those wizened blue eyes ever vigilant. “I still think you look familiar, son.”

      Michael shrugged. “Maybe I remind you of someone else.”

      “Maybe. I’m sure it will come to me after you go.” Weldon turned his eyes to Kara. “I’ll see you later this evening.”

      “All right,” Kara said.

      Weldon’s eyes swept Michael one more time, then he strode out the door, white coat flapping in the breeze—unleashing, so it seemed, the familiar scent of hospital disinfectant, the sounds of rubber soles upon the freshly waxed tile, ballpoint pens gliding across clipboards, gurneys rolling down the corridor. The sights and smells of the ER swirled around him, snaking into his memory and shaking his conscience. He belonged in a place like this, not on a lazy seashore.

      Michael tensed. “I’ll bring the car around,” he told Kara.

      She nodded.

      As he strode from the ER, he tried to shake the feeling of being caught. Caught doing what? Taking time to himself? Making a game plan regarding his career?

      Did he fear being recognized by Dr. Weldon?

      Or being chastised for a dereliction of professional duty?

      Guilt tugged at him, and try as he might, he found it hard to shake. He had a surgical skill other heart surgeons hadn’t perfected. It was a skill and technique he wasn’t using. How could he think of taking a vacation? Of wasting his time strolling on the beach?

      But how could he provide the best medical care to his patients when his mind was preoccupied with the reporters who hounded him, who hung out by his car in the parking lot, who waited to pounce on him in the hospital cafeteria, who followed him home in the evenings?

      He supposed part of their fanatical interest in him was the fact that he came from an ultra-wealthy family, that he’d achieved notability on his own talents and merits and not by virtue of his birth. The last tabloid had suggested he was now the most eligible bachelor in the country.

      But if Michael had learned anything, it was that he wasn’t marriage material. Hadn’t Denise said as much? His career meant too much to him. His patients would always have priority over his wife.