Surgery days were Sebastian’s best days.
He entered the operating suite at Beckett Memorial Hospital in Atlanta, an undercurrent of adrenaline sharpening his concentration more effectively than coffee. Markie, registered nurse and physician’s assistant, came forward to help him slip on his sterile surgical gown and gloves. He’d already scrubbed in and put on his surgical cap, mask, and the loupes that magnified and enhanced his view of the field.
“Good afternoon,” he said to the team.
“Good afternoon,” they replied as a group.
Sebastian assessed the monitors, then the progress already made. Today’s patient was three-week-old Mateo Peralta, who’d been flown in from Argentina for a ventricular repair on a heart approximately the size of a walnut. Mateo lay on the table with his eyes taped closed, head to the side, a ventilation tube in his trachea, tiny hands relaxed.
Sebastian prepared his surgical plans the way generals strategized complex battles. Even so, he sometimes altered his plans when he saw his patient’s anatomy with his own eyes. Echocardiograms had grown more and more sophisticated, but there was still no substitute for looking into a chest.
Now that he was viewing the boy’s heart, he was indeed going to adjust his plan of attack. He asked for his instruments. “Let’s get to work, people.” It was his customary phrase.
Markie shot back her customary response. “Some of us are already working.”
Smiling a little, he bent forward and began.
Sebastian and his mentors had several things in common. They were all persistent perfectionists, determined to execute their role flawlessly. They were also confident. Thick-skinned. Tough-minded. Ambitious.
Sebastian was unlike the rest of them in one key way, however. He’d been a foster kid, and because of that, his street smarts were wickedly sharp. In elementary school, if he took a toy from another kid and that kid cried, he hadn’t cared. Why should he care? He’d ended up with the toy. In middle school, he’d learned to defend himself with his fists. In high school and college, he’d used people to get ahead, he’d put his own interests first, and he’d bent every rule that didn’t suit him.
Plenty of people had called him ruthless, but no one had ever called him humble.
Then he’d graduated and begun his internship, followed by his residency, followed by his fellowships. Working on children’s hearts had a way of maturing a person. The job had taught him that no human or technological advance of the last century had the ability to improve on God’s ingenious design of the human heart.
Sebastian was not the architect of the heart. He was simply a very well-trained plumber. His goal today, and every day, was to restore defective hearts as close as possible to God’s blueprint. The more effectively he could do that, the better and faster his patient would recover.
The phone rang. Dave, the anesthesiologist, answered, then murmured to the caller.
Sebastian continued without pause, his attention fixed on closing the hole between the left and right ventricles. The heart-lung bypass machine hummed, doing the work of both the heart and the lungs during surgery by pumping the infant’s blood through his body. The less time Mateo was on bypass, the better, so Sebastian had to make the right decisions, and he had to make them fast.
He also had to think two, six, eight steps ahead. The best surgeons possessed more than knowledge and skillful hands. They possessed feel. In this line of work, disaster was usually the result of several minor mistakes instead of a major one. He was learning to recognize subtle patterns and anticipate every way in which things could go wrong.
“A baby with transposition of the great arteries has been delivered in Macon,” Dave said to him, holding the phone against his chest. “His name’s Josiah Douglas. Fourteen hours old, eight pounds. They’re transporting him here by ambulance.”
Sebastian paused his stitching and looked up over his surgeon’s loupes. “Have they started him on prostaglandins?”
“Yes.”
“When will he arrive?”
“About an hour.”
He bent his head back to his task. His current repair was progressing like poetry.
Josiah would need a septostomy procedure today. Then, after giving him a week or so to recover and grow, an arterial switch operation.
The Clinic for Pediatric and Congenital Heart Diseases here at Beckett Memorial was one of the most prestigious in the country, alongside Boston Children’s, the Cleveland Clinic, Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, and the University of California San Francisco.
The surgical team and the pediatric intensive care team here ran an extremely successful defense against death. They’d do whatever they could to ensure that they did not lose Mateo. Or Josiah.
Not today, God.
Not on my watch.
When Sebastian entered Josiah’s room that evening, a distinctive, now-familiar energy closed around him. None of the energy originated with the boy, who lay unconscious on his warming bed. All of it came from the bright, hard-working machines sustaining his life.
Josiah’s light brown hair lay against his round head at strange angles. He had big cheeks and a small mouth.
As Sebastian stood at his bedside, feeling his tiredness, an image of Leah slipped into his mind. He saw again exactly how she’d looked at the farmers market, surrounded by flowers. He replayed the moment when her eyes met his—
Stop it.
Weeks had passed since that day, and he wanted her out of his head.
He was no longer a child who took toys from other people and felt nothing when they cried. But that didn’t mean that it was in his nature to sit on the sidelines while other people pursued the things he wanted.
It wasn’t.
It was in his nature to go after the things he wanted single-mindedly. Which is exactly what he would have done had the obstacle between himself and Leah been anything and anyone other than Ben. As it was, he could do nothing, which sent frustration scratching down his limbs.
She’s off limits, he kept telling himself.
She’s off limits.
Three days later, Ben stopped in the open doorway of Leah’s classroom. “Want anything from the break room?” he asked.
She paused the motion of the sponge she was using to clean her whiteboard. Ben’s easygoing, open personality never failed to brighten her day. “Watermelon-flavored sparkling water?”
“You bet.”
He vanished. The space he’d vacated framed a view of the hallway, lockers, and passing students.
Ben occupied the classroom across the hall and four doors down from hers. They shared a free period, so at the same time almost every day, he stopped by to ask if she wanted anything from the teacher break room.
She finished cleaning her board and turned to observe her happy, tidy classroom. Semicircles of chairs radiated away from where she was standing toward the opposing wall, which contained a bank of windows. She’d stocked her bookshelves with textbooks, binders, and notebooks from her years at Clemmons, her large personal collection of books about math, and a few potted succulents and inspirational quotes.
Primary-colored portraits of the world’s most renowned math minds filled every remaining patch of wall space. Thus Hypatia, Euler, Gauss, Cantor, and more looked down on her daily.
“Here’s hoping I’m doing the lot of you proud,” she said. “Please do intervene and speak up if I’m not.”
She scooped a crumpled piece of paper and a pencil stub off the floor, depositing them in the trash before taking a seat at her desk. Outside, a breeze stirred the trees draping the hills.
Since receiving her second round of test results from YourHeritage, she’d been working to metabolize her genetic truth. It had shifted the earth she walked on. It was confusing and painful. But the best course forward was to accept what could not be changed. And so, gradually, she was learning to coexist with the revelations about her DNA the way she might coexist with a mutt who appeared one day and insisted on following her everywhere.
She had no plans to reach out to her mom. Mom had been apprised of the situation and could call her for additional information whenever she chose. Nor did Leah have plans, at this point, anyway, to tell Dylan what she’d discovered. It would upset him, and what purpose would that serve?
So far, she’d settled on just one course of action. She wanted to find answers to the questions her DNA tests had raised.
She’d been born at Magnolia Avenue Hospital in Atlanta. If she could examine Magnolia Avenue’s records on the babies born on the same day that she’d been born, she might be able to work out which biological parents were hers.
But first, she’d need to convince the hospital to show her their records. She knew just enough about the privacy regulations pertaining to hospital data to know that in order to gain access to those records, she’d need an expert on her side.
Ben sailed into her classroom and handed her the can of sparkling water. Today he’d paired a dark purple short-sleeved polo with gray pants and spotless black leather sneakers with thick white soles.
“Thank you,” she said. “Do you realize that if we walk somewhere side-by-side today, we’ll look like a study in color wheel opposites?”
“We will?”
“Yes. Yellow.” She pointed to her blouse, then to him. “And purple.”
“Ah.”
“Sir Isaac Newton would be pleased.”
“Because?”
“Because he was the first to split sunlight into beams of color and invented the color wheel.”
“You know what I said to myself when I woke up this morning?”
“I do not.”
“I said, ‘Dress to please Sir Isaac Newton today, Ben.’”
She smiled. “Mission accomplished.”
As usual, Ben settled into the student chair nearest her desk. A soft pop sounded as he opened his package of baby carrots.
She took a swallow of the chilled sparkling water, savoring it. The first sip was always the best. “The day of the farmers market you introduced me to your friend Sebastian.”
Ben chewed, nodded.
“He’s a doctor in Atlanta, right?” Leah asked.
“Yes. He lives there during the week but stays at his house here in Misty River most weekends.”
“Do you think he’d be willing to speak to me? I have a few medical questions I’d like to ask.”
Lines of concern indented his forehead. “Are you sick?”
“No. My questions have to do with old records.”
“I’d be happy to relay your questions to Sebastian and get back to you with his answers.”
“I appreciate the offer, but the records I’m after are a bit on the . . . personal side. I don’t mind giving him a call.” Leah opened the New Contact screen on her phone and passed it to Ben.
Because he was a doctor, Sebastian would know how to go about obtaining records. Additionally, doctors were good at keeping information confidential. Lastly, he’d be predisposed to help her because she’d helped him when he’d crashed his car.
Ben frowned slightly as he typed in Sebastian’s details.
It had been unsettling in the extreme to watch Sebastian’s car lunge off the road last fall. Terrified of what she might find, she’d parked and hurried down the embankment. The front of his SUV had crumpled, wisps of steam rising from it. Since the driver’s side door was wedged against small trees, she’d jerked open the passenger door. She’d discovered a good-looking, dark-haired man slumped against his seat belt, unconcious. She’d climbed onto the seat and tried to wake him. At first there’d been no response. She’d been hugely relieved when he’d woken.
He hadn’t been scared, just in pain and disoriented.
The lucid, virile Sebastian of the farmers market had been very different from the Sebastian of the car crash.
He was taller than she would have guessed. At least six foot two, with a forthright, masculine, chiseled face. His hair was inkier than she’d recalled—almost black. The day of his accident, he’d been dazed. The day of the market, his gray eyes had regarded her with extraordinary intensity. He’d spoken with assurance. There’d been no weakness in him at all.
Ben gave her phone back.
“Did you know Sebastian before the five of you were trapped by the earthquake?” she asked.
“No. He was a foster kid, and the church offered him a place on the mission trip, all expenses paid. He didn’t want to go, but his foster parents insisted. That was the first time Sebastian had done anything with our youth group. He hated being there, and he was determined to hate all of us, too.”
Leah had been young when the world’s interest had converged on the five American children who’d been trapped underground by an earthquake while in El Salvador. So when a fellow teacher informed her that Ben was one of the Miracle Five shortly after her arrival in Misty River, she’d done what she always did after pinpointing a gap in her knowledge: she’d studied up. The next time she’d seen Ben, she’d been prepared to talk intelligently on the subject of the earthquake and their subsequent miraculous rescue.
Over time, she’d learned that the entire town harbored a great deal of respect for their five most famous sons and daughters. Ben, Sebastian, Natasha, Genevieve, and Luke had been in middle school when they’d been buried alive for eight days beneath rubble. It didn’t matter to Misty River residents that the event had occurred nineteen years ago. They still regarded the kids, now adults, with a healthy dose of awe.
“So your first impression of Sebastian wasn’t a positive one,” she said.
“Not at all. He was blunt and argumentative. Mean.” Fondness softened his expression. “But he grew on me.”
“And you grew on him.”
“It took time. After we came home, he said no the first ten or twenty times I asked him to do stuff with my family and me. But then my mom got involved. . . . You’ve met my mom.”
“Yes.”
“So you know that it’s impossible to say no to her. Sebastian had met his match. She forced him to hang out with us. He started spending more and more time at our house, taking trips with us, coming to church with us.”
“The way you talk, I was under the impression that your family had practically adopted him.”
“Practically, yes. Technically, no. My parents didn’t formally adopt him, but we did pull him into our circle.”
“The famous Coleman charm softened fearsome Sebastian Grant.”
Ben’s good-natured grin caused his brown eyes to sparkle. “It overcomes everyone’s defenses in time.”
“Given that, how is it possible that you’ve made it to the age of thirty-two without marrying anyone, sir?”
His brows rose. “This topic again?”
“You know how I am when things don’t make sense to me! And your unmarried state makes no sense to me.”
“You’re unmarried.”
“I’m unmarriageable—”
“No you’re not.”
“But I am. You, however, are astonishingly marriageable.”
He chuckled. “You’re almost as bad as my mom.”
“As stated, your charm can overcome anyone’s defenses. Which means that the reason for your singleness must stem from womankind’s inability to overcome your defenses.”
He spread his hands. “That is not the reason. I’m open to a relationship!”
“Then allow me to set you up with Hallie.” Leah could name several women who’d love to date him.
“No.” He took his baby carrots and hightailed it toward the door.
“Malia?”
“No.” He darted out of sight.
“Coward!” she called after him.
Later that night, Sebastian paused the voice mail he’d begun playing while walking toward the hospital parking lot after work.
He propped a shoulder against the hallway wall, restarted the voicemail, and listened carefully.
“Sebastian, this is Leah Montgomery. We spoke briefly at Misty River High School’s farmers market. Thank you for the bouquet, by the way. I’ve enjoyed it.” A brief hesitation.
Her voice was like moonlight. Clear, tranquil.
“Ben gave me your number,” she continued. “I have a few questions about medical records, and I’m hoping you might be able to offer some insight. Feel free to give me a call back at your convenience. Sincere thanks.”
Hospital staffers drifted past.
He replayed the message again. Then again.
Finally, he continued toward his car. Ben had given Leah his number? Ben hadn’t told him he had.
Once inside his Mercedes C Class, he started the engine but made no move to put the car in gear. He collected his thoughts, then dialed Leah’s number.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
Longing fisted around his chest. “It’s Sebastian Grant. How are you?”
“I’m doing well. Thanks for returning my call. Can—can you hold on for one moment, please?”
“Sure.”
He heard a door opening and closing, followed by the sound of birds and breeze. “I reached out to you,” she said, “because I could use the advice of someone who’s knowledgeable about hospitals and the policies surrounding medical records.”
“I’m glad you reached out.” It was an understatement.
“What I’m about to say is sensitive,” she told him, “and I’m wondering if you’d consider keeping it confidential. I do realize that’s an outlandish thing to ask, seeing as how I’m a stranger.”
“I don’t consider you to be a stranger, and I’ll keep whatever you tell me confidential.”
“Thank you.”
He waited, trying to predict the situation she’d gotten herself into.
“I have reason to suspect that, immediately after my birth twenty-eight years ago, I went home from the hospital with the wrong set of parents.”
Silence exploded inside Sebastian’s car. He’d in no way predicted that. “You think you were switched at birth?” He kept his voice level. His career, his life, had taught him to absorb surprise while remaining outwardly calm.
She explained her DNA test, retest, and her mother’s insistence that she hadn’t been adopted. “I’d very much like to study the records concerning my birth,” she said, “as well as the records of all the other baby girls who were born the same day.”
“In order to learn the identity of your biological parents?”
“Yes. Also to determine what became of the baby my parents were supposed to have raised and what caused this outcome.”
“Where were you born?”
“Magnolia Avenue Hospital.”
His brain flipped through the information she’d provided. “In the state of Georgia, hospitals are only required to retain records for ten years.”
A few seconds of quiet followed. “You’re saying that the records of my birth have been destroyed.”
“I’m saying that it’s possible. Some hospitals, including my own, never destroy anything.”
“I see.” She sounded disappointed, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.
“How about I make an appointment for the two of us with the hospital administrator at Magnolia Avenue? If your records still exist, we’ll need the cooperation of those at the top of the hospital food chain in order to access them. We’ll also need a court order.”
“A meeting with the administrator would be excellent.”
“When will you be available to drive to Atlanta for a meeting?”
“There are only six days of school left. Summer vacation starts June tenth, so anytime after that should work.”
“I’ll set up an appointment as soon as possible after that date. In the meantime, I recommend you gather all the documents you have. Your birth certificate. Printouts of your DNA test results. Information on your mother’s pregnancy, and anything else you can think of.”
“I’ll call you when I have a meeting arranged.”
She’d given him a chance to advocate for her, which pleased him more than anything had in a long time. He wanted to repay her for what she’d done for him the day of his accident.
And so he would, while keeping things simple and platonic between them.
While Leah had been talking to Sebastian, she’d descended her front walkway, crossed the street, and continued along the dirt trail that wound downhill.
Now she spent a few moments admiring the view of her very own Blue Ridge Mountain valley. She adored it at this time of day, painted in the thoughtful golden tones of the coming sunset.
Sticking her phone in the pocket of her white jeans, she started back up the path. Her house came into view. Small, yet also an architectural work of art.
After she’d accepted her position at Misty River High, she’d spent a Saturday touring available houses with her Realtor. They’d viewed a string of conventional, uninspiring homes. Then her Realtor had said something along the lines of “This next one is a little unorthodox, but it’s in a great location and the price is right.” The older woman hadn’t sounded hopeful, so Leah hadn’t felt hopeful, either. Then her Realtor had come to a stop here, at the base of the steep driveway. Leah had peered out the car’s front window and promptly fallen in love.
The majority of Misty River homebuyers sought out rustic cabins, traditional brick homes, or the spindly Victorians in the oldest section of town. Not Leah. This mid-century modern gem suited her taste perfectly.
The kitchen occupied one end, the dining room and living room sat in the middle, and the two bedrooms and one bathroom occupied the other end. Glass trimmed in dark khaki paint comprised almost the entire front of the flat-roofed structure. The effect of the whole was very much that of a building striving to live in harmony with nature.
She’d hired workers to refinish the floors and install white stone countertops in the kitchen and bath. Together, she and Dylan had replaced the kitchen’s knobs and pulls. They’d repainted the walls that had been painted originally and left natural the surfaces that had been natural from the start.
When they’d filled the space with her collection of simple, 1950s-inspired furniture, everything had fit as if the house had been made specifically for them.
She let herself inside. “How’s the homework coming?” she called in the direction of Dylan’s lair.
Ominous silence. Four years ago, one of her former students had committed suicide at the age of seventeen, the age that Dylan was now. That event had scarred her, and she’d been irrationally anxious about suicide, and every other danger teenagers could embroil themselves in, ever since.
“Dylan?”
No answer.
“Dylan?”
Her steps turned in the direction of his bedroom. She knocked softly on his door. “Dylan?”
Still no answer.
She’d made sure his bedroom door had no lock for moments such as these. Letting herself inside, she spotted her brother seated at his desk, one arm folded on top of an open textbook, his head resting on his arm.
He’d fallen asleep.
She crept across his messy room, as she’d done countless times since she’d become his caregiver, to make sure his chest was rising and falling.
It was.
From this closer vantage point she could see that while he might be sleeping on his textbook, the thing he’d actually been working on was a drawing. Beneath his lax fingers, a detailed drawing of a Spartan warrior scowled up at her.
Difference number two hundred between herself and Dylan: He was talented at art.
With tenderness, she considered the contour of his cheek and the way his curly hair flopped toward the desktop. Then she tiptoed from the room, struck a match, and lit the three-wick Hawaiian beach candle resting on her coffee table. She changed out her four favorite candle fragrances with the seasons. This one smelled like ocean, pineapple, coconut, and sunshine.
The trio of flames danced.
On the phone a few minutes ago, Sebastian hadn’t told her that he’d attempt to set up a meeting with the administrator of Magnolia Avenue Hospital. He’d informed her that he would set up a meeting.
Leah had come across plenty of students and adults during the past ten years of her career who’d talked big and made confident claims, then utterly failed at following through. But Sebastian’s focused demeanor the day of the farmers market and his unhesitating manner over the phone just now gave her reason to believe that he’d find a way to do what he said he’d do.