One Sure Thing (Mamma Lou Matchmaker Series) Read online

  Louise smiled. He knew her far too well. “Yes, I have.”

  “And he has no idea.” Colonel Wheeler shook his head and chuckled softly.

  “Not a clue.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me in on the secret?”

  Louise laughed openly causing those in the loge next to theirs to turn in her direction and stare. “Otis Wheeler, you know very well you can’t keep a secret to save your life. Honestly, for more than twenty-five years and two wars you kept some of this country’s most sensitive military secrets. You planned complicated military maneuvers involving undercover operatives and were privy to top secret intelligence. Then you retired and that’s the last time you kept a secret.”

  Colonel Wheeler chuckled as his broad shoulder shook. She was absolutely right. Now that he was a civilian, most of the secrets were far too amusing to keep them to himself.

  Moments later the orchestra began to play as the curtain rose. The musical was delightful and the beautiful scenery and dazzling costumes added to their enjoyment. Louise glanced down at the woman seated between the two red bookends. The muted house lights shone just enough to give her an added aura of beauty. Her delighted expression said it all. Louise couldn’t have been more pleased with herself and her choice.

  Chapter Two

  Dr. Hope Adams could feel the tension in her body reach a point that she knew was unhealthy. She knew working in the emergency room was a place where pain and misery were a daily occurrence. But at this point in her career, despair far exceeded the joy she once felt working in the hospital.

  Working in the ER had begun to take its toll on her. Unfortunately, burnout was just one of the side effects of her chosen profession.

  She was lying down in the lower bunk bed in the doctors’ lounge, staring up at the wire canopy of mattress springs above her. She was completely exhausted. The peace of a restful sleep continued to elude her. Physically and emotionally she was exhausted, yet she was wide-awake. She shifted her weight and placed the neatly folded newspaper by her side and exhaled audibly as she subconsciously stroked the side of her face.

  It was an old habit, touching the small scar often comforted her when she was at her most vulnerable. The blemish on the side of her face just under her left eyebrow near her hairline always stirred long ago memories of sadness and pain. Tired beyond exhaustion, she was on a much-needed break. She looked at the florescent glow of the numbers on the face of her watch. She had just a few more hours left of a twenty-four hour rotation, and for the first time in a long time she had the opportunity to get a little shut-eye. Yet, she couldn’t sleep. It was an occupational hazard brought on by long hours and too many patients. By the time she wound down, it was time to get back to work.

  Hope looked up at the grid of metal wire underneath the empty bed above her. She had already counted the open squares, and the intersecting points. She closed her eyes again and tried to erase the hundreds of images flashing through her head.

  She’d tried everything to relax. She’d counted backwards from a thousand. She even counted sheep, but nothing worked. Then, finally without really trying, she was beginning to drift off.

  A ray of light split the darkness. Damn! It never seemed to fail. As soon as she was drifting off to sleep someone would find a reason to awaken her.

  “Hope, are you awake?” The quiet voice of Maxine Hunter whispering interrupted her slumber. Maxine crept into the small hospital staff lounge close enough to turn on the light sitting precariously on the edge of the cluttered desk. “Hope?” She moved the lamp away from the edge of the desk and adjusted the cord behind it. “Hope?”

  “All right, all right, I heard you, I’m up,” she said as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and arched her back in a slow languid stretch. Forty minutes of sleep in twenty-four hours has the tendency to make anyone grouchy.

  Maxine turned on the switch for the ceiling light illuminating the room even brighter. She handed Hope the clipboard she’d brought in with her then leaned over and began to straighten up the pile of newspaper, folders, medical journals and books on the night stand.

  A low achy-sounding moan escaped Hope’s lips as Maxine turned the nightstand light to its brightest setting. Momentarily blinded by the bright light, Hope yawned and rotated her neck slowly.

  “Somebody’s not in a very good mood,” Maxine said in a sing-song voice as she handed Hope the clipboard.

  “I haven’t been in a good mood in close to eight years,” Hope said, as she flipped over the first two pages of the chart after scanning the records. She initialed them and signed her name on the third page. “And I don’t intend to be in a good mood for at least another sixty years.” On the fourth page she read and signed a release form that was approved earlier.

  On the last page, she looked over the results of tests she’d ordered earlier for a patient. The patient came in complaining of sudden weight loss, excessive thirst and hunger, irritation and frequent urination. The tests had confirmed her initial suspicions. The patient was diabetic. She referred the patient to an endocrinologist on staff then signed off on the paperwork.

  Within minutes Hope had completed the patient forms and hospital paperwork. She placed the clipboard on the bed next to her, sat up straighter, then fluffed and loosened the halo of curls covering her head. The black ringlets had always had a mind of their own. That had been the case since she was old enough to comb her hair. No matter how much she fluffed and combed her hair, it was always recoiled to the same curly mass.

  Maxine sucked her teeth loudly. “That’s a shame girlie. You have to learn to loosen up,” she said with a thick Jamaican accent, which was usually followed by a smart remark. She picked up the white jacket from the back of the chair and held it out for Hope to slip on. Hope stood and slid her arms into the sleeves. “You need to get a hobby, something outside of this hospital. I’m telling you for your own good. You need you learn how to relax. You’re going burn yourself out one of these days. You know, of course, that the staff is taking bets on how long before you completely loose you mind.

  “I sincerely hope you woke me up for something other than another one of your sermons, because to tell you the truth Maxine, I’m really not in the mood.”

  Maxine chuckled. “I hope you were able to get a little shut eye, because you’re gonna need it. We have a full house.”

  “Oh joy,” Hope replied.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just giving you a heads up.”

  “I know. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I never do,” Maxine said in her usual nonchalant manner.

  Hope shook her head. She marveled at Maxine’s ability to take everything in stride. At times her brusque manner made the rest of the hospital staff nervous. But for the select few who knew her well, they got to see a different side of Maxine. She was a kind and caring dedicated professional, who kept most people at bay. But at times, she took great pleasure in scaring the wits out of med students, interns, and new hires.

  Maxine was a fifty-something medical school drop out with a chip on her shoulder the size of a redwood tree. She’d long since crashed and burned in the ER, she just refused to work anywhere else in the hospital. She was an excellent physician’s assistant with enough medical training to do more than the job required. Unfortunately, she’d been reprimanded by the hospital administration for her disregard for authority.

  To her credit she had enough knowledge of medicine to rival most doctors and nurses, and they knew it, so they left her alone.

  Maxine was an odd character. Born and raised in Jamaica, she was the illegitimate daughter of a British businessman and his Jamaican maid. She had bright blue eyes with specks of green. And when she was angry, her piercing stare had practically made grown men cry. Her high cheekbones and full lips reflected her Jamaican ancestry. Her cream-kissed umber complexion gave her an exotic look that bespoke her mixed heritage.

  Thick dreadlocks, pulled off her face by a wide headband
, trailed down her back like a midnight waterfall. Her frame, solid and bountiful, was Rubenesque with its round and voluptuous curves. Seemingly unruffled by anything, Maxine was legendary around the ER for her cool, calm manner in the face of crisis.

  “How do you stay so composed surrounded by all of this madness?” Hope said, as she picked up the clipboard and gave it back to Maxine.

  “I don’t let it get to me,” Maxine said.

  “It’s not that easy, and you know it.”

  “It is for me.”

  “Then you’re the lucky one. ‘Cause I think it gets to all of us eventually,” Hope Confessed.

  “Not if you bowl.”

  “Not if you what?”

  “Not if you bowl. You know bowling.”

  “Bowling? What does bowling have to do with not going nuts in place?”

  “It’s not necessarily the ball, it’s the pins. At times pin number one is Hugh, pin number two is Scott, and pin number three is Leanne’s husband, and so on.”

  “I get it. You knock the pins down instead of the real people.”

  Maxine nodded.

  “Smart. Assault and battery on a bowling pin instead of a person. Not a bad idea.” Hope paused for a second then continued. “Am I one of those pins?” she asked, sure that Maxine would say no.

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “That’s cold Maxine, even for you.”

  Maxine shrugged then sighed heavily. “So I’ve been told.” Hope glanced at her friend and wondered just how much truth was in her last statement.

  “Is that all?”

  “No. Your favorite frequent flyer is back again and she’s asking for you.” Maxine handed her file.

  Hope looked at Maxine questioningly then it dawned on her who Maxine was referring to. “Leanne?” Hope asked.

  Maxine nodded.

  “Damn, not again.” Hope shuffled through the patient files attached to the clipboard. She closed her eyes and shook her head as soon as she saw the name listed on the ER report.

  “Again,” Maxine stated dryly.

  “How bad is it this time?” Hope muttered, more to herself as she looked over the in-take report.

  Maxine grimaced painfully and shook her head. “Oh, he really loved her this time. A sprained wrist to go with the broken arm from last time, two fractured ribs and a bruised shiner.”

  “Damn,” Hope shook and lowered her head. “What is it about the full moon that drives that man crazy? He needs some serious anger management therapy.”

  “He needs more than that. He needs a foot up his…” Maxine began.

  Hope eyed Maxine and raised her brow. Maxine rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “But, if you ask me she’s the one that needs to have her head examined. She can’t keep going back to him. How many times has she crawled, limped and stumbled in here because her husband got too drunk and decided it was a good idea to wale away on her head. Time and time again we’ve seen her stagger in here, then a few hours later he shows up with some pathetic half-dead flowers and a tired, lame excuse and that’s supposed to make everything alright? How many times have we seen her in the last two years—ten, twelve, maybe fifteen times?”

  Hope tried hard to concentrate on the chart. The last thing she wanted to do at three-thirty in the morning was get into an argument with Maxine about how someone else chose to live their life.

  “Did you order the usual tests?”

  Maxine nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good, include a CAT scan and CX-R.”

  Maxine nodded. “I also rounded up the usual suspects, police, domestic violence counselor and someone from family intervention is coming down.”

  Hope frowned.

  “She said she fell down the stairs, hit her head on the rail and hurt her chest on the landing. The social service counselor is in with her right now,” Maxine said with more disgust than concern in her tone.

  “Don’t pass judgment, Maxine,” Hope admonished while flipping to another in-take report.

  “I’m not passing judgment, I’m simply stating facts.” Maxine looked at Hope as if to punctuate her point. “She’s likely to be a STBD statistic—soon to be dead—and everybody knows it. The next time she comes through the ER doors, she just might be DOA. Then all we’ll have to do is send her through with a pretty pink toe-tag.”

  Hope looked over to Maxine. Her affinity for being overly dramatic was well-known.

  “Did the lab results come in yet?”

  “No, the lab’s backed up.”

  “Alright, I’ll see her when the results are in.”

  “Somebody needs to have a good long talk with that woman,” Maxine declared.

  “I’m sure you’re the right person for the job Maxine,” Hope said under her breath, just loud enough to get Maxine’s attention.

  “Actually, her doctor is the right person for the job.”

  “Wrong.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve already spoken to her about spousal abuse. She knows the risks. She doesn’t want to hear it. She’s not ready to change her life. I believe her exact words were, “I’ll die without him.”

  “At this rate she’ll die because of him,” Maxine muttered.

  “She’s not ready Maxine,” Hope insisted.

  “Well hell, when will she be ready, when she’s pushing up daisies, six feet under with a tombstone that reads: She Was Finally Ready?”

  Hope looked up at Maxine. The urgency of her expression was frightening. A sudden jolt hit her in the pit of her stomach. The memory of abuse was never far from her mind. She knew the pattern well. Simmering anger would explode into a fit of rage. The uncontrolled fury would be unleashed in a wave of torture and beatings. She remembered it all too well. Afterwards, the same excuses, the same bruises, and the same pain.

  Hope’s eyes began to well up with tears she had long ago refused to shed. A part of her understood the madness it took to stay and the insanity it took to remain silent.

  “No one can change someone else’s life. She has to be willing to do something, to take the first step,” Hope said as the fatigue in her voice became evident. “It’s not our call.”

  “It’s her doctor’s call.”

  “She’s not ready Maxine. You know as well as I do that she has to choose to survive and not be a victim.” Reflexively, Hope touched the scar on the side of her face.

  “I know the standard line,” Maxine admitted. “I’ve said it a thousand times myself.” She went silent for a few moments, and then almost immediately went into a three-minute lecture on the consequences of spousal abuse.

  Hope was only half-listening as she looked at another chart. The conversation was getting to her or maybe it was the memories. Either way, she’d had enough. It was a waste of time and energy as long as the person refused to help themselves.

  “What’s this?” Hope said, interrupting Maxine’s spiel.

  “What’s what?” Maxine leaned over Hope’s shoulder and positioned her reading glasses over the bridge of her nose. She peered over the top and squinted trying to adjust her focus. Maxine decided she’d never get used to bifocals and pulled them off.

  Hope moved closer to the table lamp. “This, a sonogram I ordered for exam room four. I ordered it earlier. But this says the test was cancelled.”

  Maxine let her glasses dangle from their chain onto the drab blue top of the scrubs she wore. “Doctor Wallace cancelled it right after he reviewed the chart and discharged the patient.”

  “Damn!” Hope instantly sprang up, barely missing the corner of the upper bunk bed and the edge of the table. “What is his problem? I am so sick of being second-guessed.”

  “He is the emergency room chief. He has final say on all patients. But of course, you already know that,” Maxine said, as she followed the quick moving Hope down the corridor.

  “There’s nothing you can do. You know Hugh listens to Scott. He’ll take Scott’s word over yours in a New York minute. I don’t know what you did to that man, but
he sure has it in for you.”

  Hope ignored the remark. Hugh was the least of her worries at the moment. Her main focus was on the patient that had just been sent home. “That’s not the point. This is my patient. He needed a sonogram, He needs to be admitted. He’s got a bleeding ulcer. Pepto-Bismol and a Band-Aid aren’t going to cut it this time.” Hope grumbled as she punched the button on the wall for the emergency wing, sending the doors in motion. She burst through the ER doors like she’d been shot out of a cannon.

  The first person she saw was Scott Wallace. He was talking to a very attractive lab technician. Hope walked directly to him.

  “Doctor, may I please have a word with you?”

  “Sure.” He said as he turned and headed toward his small office.

  As soon as the doors closed Hope stated her case for the patient who had been discharged. Scott listened attentively. It took less than five minutes for Hope to make her point and it took three seconds for Scott to say he hadn’t changed his mind.

  Dr. Scott Wallace lived by one hard and fast rule, especially when it came to healthcare. If he had his way, no one who couldn’t afford it, would ever spend a night in a hospital. His strictest rule was: no medical insurance, no bed.

  And if by chance a patient’s insurance wasn’t quite good enough, then that they would receive only minimal care and attention, then be promptly discharged from the hospital. However, anyone with the right insurance would be given a bevy of expensive tests and immediately admitted for overnight observation.

  Hope angrily stomped away from his office. “Pompous ass,” she muttered to herself while still protesting in vain. “I really hate this part of medicine.”

  “It’s his call Hope. He’s in charge,” Maxine reminded her. “Whatever he says goes.”

  “Doesn’t make it right.” She could feel the rage still seething inside her. She’d been overruled again. She was so tired of having someone constantly looking over her shoulder and having her diagnosis second-guessed. She knew more about emergency medicine than most of the doctors on staff. She made it a point to keep up with the latest medical developments and research.