White stucco buildings squatted among the lush, well- kept greenery of Medical Park Circle like a flock of herons sitting on their separate nests. In the distance the tides flowed with their ceaseless rhythms, undaunted by the life and death dramas being played out in the plush offices on the mainland.
Paul quietly let himself into his office in the middle of Medical Park Circle. For a moment he stood in the dark, inhaling the familiar scents of polished wood and rich leather. Nostalgia swept over him. Once he had been happy here, full of courage, zealous ambition, and audacity.
If only he could turn back the clock.
Paul switched on the light. There was no going back.
Rows of medical books lined two walls. He took down a fat volume and scanned the Index until he found what he was seeking.
As always, he became absorbed by the medical text.
Let lesser mortals thrill to the pages of a fiction bestseller. For him there was nothing more exciting than reading about the ills of the human body and the miraculous ways to cure them.
"Paul!"
His partner, Luther Westberg, leaned against the door frame, his clothes rumpled, a pair of wire-rim glasses pushed back into his frizzy mop of blond hair, and the bridge of his nose peeling.
"Been sailing again, Luther?"
"I'll be damned." Luther loped across the room in his long-legged gait and sank into Paul's fat leather chair. "You don't show your ugly face around here for months, and then you come sneaking in here in the middle of the night and that's all you've got to say." He adjusted his glasses on his nose and peered at Paul. "How the hell did you know, anyway?"
"The red nose. It's a dead giveaway."
They stared at each other until the silence became uncomfortable. Both of them were remembering the day six months earlier that Paul had left.
"You're pissing your life away with the bottle," Luther had said.
"I can't stay, Luther." Paul held out his trembling hands. "Look at me. If I stay here I'll start killing people instead of healing them."
"Then get your act together." Luther stomped around Paul's office, scowling at the medicals texts and the framed certificates. "We've built one of the best practices in the state. You can't throw that away."
"I'm not throwing it away. I'm just leaving for a while."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"Dammit, Paul ..."
"I'm sorry, Luther. I know this looks cowardly ..."
"Damned right. I never figured you for a coward."
"I have no other choice."
"A man always has a choice."
"Look, Paul ..."
"Luther . . ."
They spoke at the same time, then looked at each other, sheepish.
"You first," Luther said.
"I'm doing a little research."
"On what?"
"Stroke rehabilitation." Luther raised one eyebrow. Paul knew he would ask, and not only ask but hammer away until he had the truth. "It's a favor for a friend."
He shelved the book he'd been reading, then turned back to his partner. His long absence had destroyed the easy camaraderie that once existed between them. The day Paul left, Luther had been forced to assume the full burden of their practice. A medical partnership was very much like a marriage: its success depended on two people working together.
The leather mate to the desk chair squeaked as Paul sat down, suddenly overwhelmed by what he was about to do. Coming back meant taking risks. Coming back meant holding the lives of others in his hands. Coming back meant bearing the responsibility . . . and the guilt.
"You're working late," he said to Luther, avoiding the question that burned between them.
For a moment Luther looked as if he would take the bait, as if he would enter into an idle conversation about why he was working late and forget the important issue. Then his nose got redder, a sure sign of anger.
"You have the gall to say that to me. I'm working late because I'm the only damned one of us willing to work, partner."
"I'm sorry, Luther."
"Sorry won't cut it this time, pal. You were sorry six months ago when you left. I want more than your apologies. I want to know when you're going to pull your
self together and get your ass back down here where you belong."
"How does tomorrow sound?"
"And another thing . . . tomorrow?"
"If I heard myself correctly, that's what I said."
"Well, I'll be damned."
"I'm overwhelmed by your enthusiasm."
"It's taking a while to sink in."
"I'm scared as hell about this. My hands shake so badly, I don't know if I'll ever pick up a scalpel again." Paul leaned forward in his chair. "Listen, Luther. I don't want to be a drag on this partnership any longer."
"You were grieving."
"I am now. When Sonny died I wouldn't allow myself to grieve."
"I wish I could tell you I understand, but I don't. Not really. I see death every day, but until it touches my life I'll never understand it."
Paul left his chair and stood looking out the window. Death had touched him, had stolen the most precious person in his life. And now he was ready to fight back. He would do everything in his power to keep the Grim Reaper away from his patients.
"We can have our lawyers get together and dissolve this partnership," he said, his back to Luther.
"Is that what you want?"
"I thought it might be best."
"For you or me?"
He turned to face his partner. "For you."
"Don't do me any favors, pal."
"Then I'll assume we still have a partnership unless you decide otherwise. If you do, let me know and we'll start the necessary legal work."
"Don't hold your breath." Luther started to leave Paul as abruptly as he always left his patients.
"I see your famous bedside manner is still intact."
In the doorway to the long hall that connected their offices, Luther spun around.
"You're not a patient, even though you do look like hell."
"I'm watching my girlish figure."
Their laughter dispelled the tension. Luther walked to Paul and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Welcome back."
"Did I tell you that I'll be taking every Wednesday afternoon off?"
"That's just like a doctor. I'm not even going to ask who she is."
Paul didn't tell Luther that she was a little boy named Jeffy. It was late, and Luther probably had at least one surgery scheduled for Thursday morning. There would be plenty of time for explanations now that he was back.