CARMEN FITZPATRICK WAS as petite and pretty as she appeared on her album covers, but her café au lait skin was sallow, and a pair of wrinkles marred the spot between her eyebrows.
At first Nychelle thought the young woman was still in pain from her sickle cell crisis, but she soon realized at least part of her scowl was anger.
“I don’t know what the fuss is all about,” she said, as soon as David and Nychelle had been introduced. “Having you around is just a waste of time and money. I’ve been dealing with this since I was a child.”
“Just stop your squawking.” Milo LaMar, the man who’d met them outside and introduced himself as Carmen’s manager, lowered himself onto one of the couches in the massive room and gave his artiste a glare. “You wanted to come down here, so we came. Making sure your health doesn’t suffer because of the decision isn’t a waste of anything.”
Carmen snorted, matching his glower with a dagger stare from her dark, flashing eyes. “You’re like an old woman, Milo. I’m fine.”
They’d already received her medical records from the young doctor who’d flown in with her, and David had scanned them. Nychelle hung back slightly, letting him take the lead.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick, I’m glad you’re feeling better, but your manager has a point.” The young woman looked set to argue, but David smiled and held up his hand, forestalling her. “Most people recovering from a crisis wouldn’t be traveling, much less going someplace where they don’t already have a support system. We’re here to make sure that whatever happens while you’re in Florida will be dealt with as efficiently as it would be had you stayed in New York.”
Carmen gave him a defiant look out of the corner of her eye. “I know what to do if a crisis comes on. I’m telling you—this isn’t anything new to me.”
“But living here is.”
Nychelle liked the calm way David spoke: frankly, and not talking down to the patient.
Carmen gave a little head-toss. “I just need some peace and quiet. It’s been a long few months. I just want to stay in one place for a while—preferably with no one coming by or wanting anything.”
“Okay.” David infused a little laughter into his voice. “We can take a hint, can’t we, Nurse Cory? We’ll get out of your hair as soon as we’ve given you a quick examination.”
“We’ll be gone in a flash,” Nychelle agreed, handing David the medical bag. “Mr. LaMar, if you’d excuse us?”
Milo heaved his considerable bulk out of the sofa, then pointed a finger at Carmen. “Be nice. They’re here to help you.”
Carmen’s rapid-fire spate of Spanish had Nychelle biting the inside of her lip to suppress slightly shocked laughter. The singer certainly knew how to get her point across in a colorful way, and Nychelle made sure not to look at David, in case his expression set her off.
Milo LaMar had warned them Carmen was feeling out of sorts—“Just not herself since this last crisis,” was the way he’d put it—and Nychelle made sure to pay special attention to the younger woman’s sullen mood.
When David started asking her about her condition, Carmen lost control.
“Yes, I’ve been taking my hydroxyurea. And, yes, it’s been working fine.” She was almost shouting, tears making her eyes gleam. “I told you—I’ve been dealing with this for most of my life. I don’t need a pep talk or you going over everything all over again.”
“So what’s different this time?”
David’s quiet question cut through her tirade and Carmen sank back into the corner of the couch, turning her head away.
“Nothing. Nothing’s different. It’s just the same life-interrupting garbage I’ve had to deal with all along.”
“So why are you so upset this time?”
The silence stretched between them and Nychelle found herself holding her breath, almost afraid to move in case it stopped the young woman from opening up.
“Life was going so well.” It was a whisper. “It had been almost two years since I had a crisis. The tour was great. I finally had someone I was interested in...”
Her voice faded, and Nychelle felt her heart contract in sympathy.
“He couldn’t handle seeing you in the midst of the crisis?”
“It wasn’t that... Oh, forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”
Nychelle took a chance, and sat down next to Carmen. “Maybe I would,” she said quietly. “You didn’t tell him about the sickle cell, did you?”
Carmen drew in a shuddering breath. “No. I don’t tell anyone I don’t think has to know. I never wanted anyone to say, Oh, there’s that Carmie-K—the chick with the sickle cell disease. I never wanted to have people thinking about that instead of my music. Besides, we weren’t really serious yet. Just getting to know each other.”
“I get it,” Nychelle said softly. “I really do.”
Carmen whipped her head around to give her a glare. “How could you? You don’t have it, do you?”
“No.” Nychelle shook her head. “I don’t. But I do have a condition I’d need any man I’m thinking of having a long-term serious relationship with to know about. The question becomes when do I tell him? It’s not a first date conversation. Not even second or third. It’s something I wouldn’t want anyone I’m not planning a future with to know. So, then I have to figure out when’s the best time? And sometimes it’s easier to just forget about it.”
“Yeah.” Carmen nodded, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Yeah, exactly.” She sighed. “I haven’t had time for guys or relationships before, so it never came up. Then I was feeling so well that everything else other than the SCD just kind of became more important. I didn’t have to think about it—like you said, just take my meds and go on with life. Then...”
Nychelle touched Carmen’s hand—just a fleeting contact on the young woman’s tightly fisted fingers. “Then the disease butted in, when it was least wanted?”
Finding the right words was difficult, but there was no way to sugarcoat the situation, and she doubted Carmen would appreciate it if she tried.
Drawing on her own experience, she said, “It’s never going to be easy—but you know that already, and you have to live your life the way you want to. That includes what you keep private and what you share with others. It’s tough for you, because you’re in the public eye, and I really don’t have any advice on how you should deal with that.”
Carmen sighed, then said, “Yeah, it’s gotten harder to keep it secret.”
“At some point it will probably be in your best interests to go public with it.” David shrugged slightly when Carmen threw him a scowl in response to his matter-of-fact statement. “I’m no expert on the press or social media, believe me, but it seems to me they thrive on ferreting out people’s secrets and making a big deal out of them. If you choose to put the news out there, then it won’t have the same impact.”
“That’s what Milo’s been saying for the last year.”
Slumped in the corner of the couch, Carmen looked forlorn. Funny how because of her talent and her poise Nychelle had forgotten just how young she really was.
“I just don’t want the stares and the fuss—or to have it overshadow the music.”
“It might for a while.” David gave one of his abbreviated smiles. “But Nychelle advises me that you have many dedicated fans, and I’m sure they’ll just want more music, no matter what.”
“You know my music?”
Carmen’s expression was skeptical, and Nychelle chuckled. “Yeah, yeah—I know I’m old...”
Carmen’s stuttering, embarrassed reply just made her laugh harder, and soon David and then, after a few seconds, Carmen joined in.
* * *
By the time they left the mansion Carmen seemed in a better frame of mind. As Nychelle drove back toward the clinic David stretched his legs out as far as possible and said, “I think that went well.” Looking at her, he continued, “We make a good team.”
“Just about now I should probably tell you I’ve been trained to work smoothly with every doctor I come in contact with.” Her lips quirked in a mischievous smile, and there was a twinkle of laughter in the glance she sent him. “But we both know it doesn’t always work out that way.”
David chuckled, even as his thumb beat an anxious tattoo on his thigh. “Yes, that’s true. I’m just glad we seem to click. I think you did a great job finding out what was going on with Carmen.”
Nychelle put on her indicator and checked her mirrors. “You did too. So I guess you’re right—we do make a pretty good team.” She sighed. “I feel for her. It’s hard having a disease that you know shortens your life expectancy as well as periodically completely disrupts your life.”
“That’s true—but sometimes you have to look at the positives too, right? Less than fifty years ago kids with sickle cell rarely lived past their early teens. That’s not the case anymore.”
“I know. I know... And the new bone marrow transplant treatment is promising. But not for her. She’s an only child, and mixed race, so the chances of her finding a bone marrow match are miniscule.”
He knew and admired many dedicated doctors and nurses, but Nychelle’s seemingly unending well of knowledge and kindness was touching. Her remark about having a condition of her own had echoed in his head since she’d said it, and although it really was none of his business he had to ask.
Making his voice as casual as possible, he said, “You’re a wonderful nurse, but I think your greatest asset is actually your empathy. Getting Carmen to talk by opening up about your own life is a good example of that.” When Nychelle didn’t say anything, he went on, “Were you telling the truth about having a medical condition?”
The car had stopped at a red light, but she didn’t look at him when she replied, “Yes. I wouldn’t make up something like that.”
Her long, elegant fingers gripped the gearstick hard enough to make her knuckles pale. He should leave it alone. But, try as he might, he couldn’t contain his fascination with the woman beside him, who haunted him even when she wasn’t around. He kept telling himself to stay clear, yet he couldn’t resist the need to know everything he could ferret out about her.
“So, what kind of condition is it?”
Nychelle pursed her lips slightly as she put the vehicle in gear and started to drive through the intersection. Then she relaxed, and shot him an impish glance. “Are you telling me you want a long-term intimate relationship with me?”
Okay.
The word leaped into his throat and literally froze him to his seat. How easy it would be to say it. And mean it.
Okay.
His temperature rose as fantasies of being with Nychelle wound through his head. He imagined silly things, like sharing the Sunday paper in bed, or laughing at a corny joke with her, and it made his heart rate go through the roof. Visualizing other, more important things sent an exciting, erotically charged ache spreading through his veins. Listening to her. Holding her. Making love to her.
Seeing her grow round with their baby.
He clenched his teeth as fear shot like ice through his chest, banishing the arousing images. Then his heart clenched with a second jolt of terror.
Where had that thought come from? Why had it entered his head? Unless it was to remind him how dangerous it would be to get closer to Nychelle? He’d struggled these last few weeks, with memories of Natalie and the time after he’d lost her stronger than they’d been for a long time. Now guilt ate at him for even thinking such a thing.
David turned his head to stare, unseeing, out the side window, swallowing against the sour taste rising in his throat.
Nychelle snickered. “Ha! I didn’t think so.”
Suddenly tired, he battled competing emotions. Guilt and sorrow sat like molten iron in his belly, reminding him that he couldn’t take another chance on love. He’d already had enough pain to last him a lifetime. There was no way he’d chance a repeat of the horrific agony he’d felt after losing Natalie. And yet his chest was tight with fear too.
Still looking out the window, unable to bear facing her, he asked, “Just tell me this then. Is it life-threatening? Your condition?”
“No,” she replied, her tone subdued, as though his mood was affecting her. “No, nothing like that.”
And for a moment, before he resolutely pulled himself together, relief made him literally weak. “Okay. Good. I’m glad to hear it.”