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Peering around the opening door were big blue eyes. Those big blue eyes. Son of a gun, it was dumpling, the young woman he’d mistaken for a teenage patient that morning. Damned if he was going to be the first to speak, he sat watching her enter his office. First her head and shoulders came round the door. Next one foot. Then the other foot cautiously followed suit. There she was, as large than life, except in her case that equaled a petite picture of youth and enthusiasm—the last thing on earth, and especially today, that he needed. When the hell had been the last time he’d actually felt enthusiastic about anything?
With one hand behind her back, she cleared her throat. “Hi, Dr. Griffin.”
He sat as still as a boulder. Sure, he’d heard the rumblings about everyone going out for drinks after work that night, and little miss bright eyes being the instigator. Well, he wanted nothing to do with it. He didn’t believe in fraternizing with his staff. It didn’t set a good example. And even if he changed his mind, today would be the last day of any year he’d choose to break his hard and fast rule.
“Um...” Polly edged closer one tiny step at a time as he stared her down. “A bunch of us are going to O’Malley’s for some hot wings and beer, and...” She scratched her nose, her eyes darting around the room to avoid meeting his stare. “Well, I was, um, I mean, we were hoping you’d join us.”
“And why would I do that?” Even for him it came out gruffer than he’d meant.
She studied her feet. “To help raise your staff’s morale?”
“Morale? What’s that?”
“When people enjoy coming to work, and work better because of it?” She looked all of fifteen standing there, thick wavy dark blonde hair gathering on her shoulders, saucer-sized eyes, chewing her lower lip, hands behind her back, yet somehow seeming courageous.
Normally, he wasn’t into torture, but she’d been the one to come to him. It might be twisted, but making her squirm also distracted him from those morbid thoughts looping over and over in his mind.
“Are you their sacrifice?” he said. She glanced up, looking perplexed. “Did they put you up for the fall, being the new girl and all?”
“No, sir. I wanted to invite you. It was my idea.”
Her near opaque aqua eyes finally found their mark, and the sight of this young woman staring at him made the hairs on his arms rise. His wife had had eyes exactly like hers. Earlier today, they had been the first feature he’d noticed about the new nurse. Everything else about her physically was completely different from his wife, except those eyes. God, he missed Lisa.
But all the wishing in the world couldn’t bring her back.
“Do they need their morale raised?” he said, sounding dead flat even to himself. Who the hell was going to raise his morale? “Don’t they have lives to go home to every day? Doesn’t that raise their spirits enough without me having to babysit them in a bar, too?”
“They don’t need a babysitter. We’d all like to share a drink together, that’s all.” He saw the pink blush begin on her cheeks and spread rapidly to her neck and ears.
He wasn’t a monster. He felt bad that he’d made her feel so uncomfortable, but someone should have warned her about trying to involve him in anything social. Brooke had clearly fallen down on her supervisory duties.
All he wanted to do was go home, hide in a dark room, and bury his sorrow in a glass of perfectly aged Scotch. The world didn’t need to know that today would have been Lisa’s thirty-sixth birthday. How the hell would it look to be chatting in a bar on a day like this?
“I can’t.” He stood to signal their meeting was over.
“I double-dog dare you.” She grimaced.
He folded his arms and one eyebrow quirked. Was she serious?
With a look of desperation she whipped her arm from behind her back, revealing the silly blue balloon sword he’d made for her earlier. “It’s just that I was hoping to buy a drink for the man who saved my day, today. You and that jar of latex-free balloons on your desk.”
By the earnest expression on her face he knew it hadn’t been easy for her to come into his office and beg him to meet with his staff at a pub. A staff he kept socially at an arm’s length yet depended on, no, demanded they give his patients the best medical care in New York. He’d always assumed their paychecks were thanks enough. Maybe dumpling had the right idea.
He didn’t have a clue, neither did he care, what would make her need to include him. But the employees were all probably at the bar having a good laugh at the new nurse’s expense about how they’d managed to set her up for failure. What a dirty trick. Some nurses really did like to eat their young and this Polly was definitely that. Young. Innocent looking. Fresh. Sweet. Ah, hell, be honest—attractive. He gave a tentative smile. She instantly responded with a bright grin and raised brows, and he was a goner. How could he let someone down with a reputation on the line?
Surely Lisa would understand.
“Okay,” he said.
“Sweet!”
“One beer and you’re buying.”
She nodded, triumph sparkling in her bright blue eyes. “Gladly, sir.” She pointed the way to the door with the balloon sword.
“That stays here,” he said as he passed her on his way out.
She stifled her giggle when he impaled her with his dead serious stare.
One thing she’d already proved to him. This girl...er...woman named Polly was fearless. He liked that.
* * *
John had to admit the tall glass of house draft tasted great and felt smooth going down. His newest nurse, in keeping with her promise, had fronted the money to buy it for him, which made it taste all the better. She really wanted him there. When was the last time he’d been wanted anywhere other than in the orthopedic operating room?
The look of surprise on the faces of the group of nurses and techs when he’d walked into the bar had been worth the effort. Everyone had gone quiet for an instant before slowly winding back up to their usual pub noise. He could only imagine what they thought about him showing up, and wondered if anyone had taken bets. He and Polly had shared a quiet but victorious glance.
Chatty Polly had burned his ears on the stroll over, too. She’d practically burst with excitement explaining how much coming to New York and landing a job at such a famous hospital as Angel’s had meant to her.
Good for her. The world could use more idealistic nurses. Yet he craved the silence of his apartment, where he could sit in the dark and stare out over the neighborhood—remembering the vacancy where the twin towers used to be, nursing his Scotch, which could never fill the bottomless hole in his heart. Shifting his thoughts to the here and now, he took another drink of his beer and gazed at fresh-faced Polly to help banish the image.
She sat beside him on a barstool, sipping pale ale that left a hint of orange on her breath as she continued to chew his ear. “I wasn’t always interested in orthopedics. I saw myself as an emergency nurse.” Her eyes went wide. Even in the darkened bar they sparkled. “That is, until I worked my first shift on a busy night with a full moon.” She covered her face with long fingers and clear-varnished nails, and shook her head, then quickly peeked up at him. “I thought I was going to die!”
Was everyone this animated, or had he quit noticing? He’d be dead between the ears if he didn’t admit she was cute, and likeable. She shrugged out of her sweater and he realized she’d changed her nursing scrubs, which had baby koalas patterned over them, for a clingy pink top that dipped just enough to reveal a full-grown woman’s cleavage.
How had he not noticed that all day?
He took another drink and tried his damnedest not to stare. She removed her hairband and put it inside her combination backpack-purse, and those light waves curtained her face in an alluring way, coming to rest on her shoulders...which led his eyes back to her breasts.
He certainly wasn’t dead. Just severely inactive.
But this wasn’t right, staring down her shirt. He needed to change his focus. “Bartender, the next round for this group is on me.”
Everyone clapped and cheered, even a few people he’d never seen before in his life, and he took another drink of beer, feeling almost human again.
Polly wrapped her arm around his and squeezed. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” he said, tensing, staring straight ahead, knowing his answer had come out clipped. He hadn’t made contact with a woman like this in, well, longer than he cared to admit.
She must have sensed his tension and unwrapped her arm but moved closer on her stool. “So, Dr. Griffin, I’ve told you all about me, but I don’t know where you come from.”
The bartender delivered the drinks along the counter, and refilled the bowls with pretzels and mixed nuts.
“I’m a New York native.”
“So your whole family is here, too?”
“My parents retired to Florida a few years back, and my sister lives in Rhode Island now.”
“Are you married? Do you have any kids?”
If Lisa hadn’t been killed he would have been a father of an eleven-year-old by now. But his world had officially ended the day he’d spent digging people out of debris as a first responder on 9/11. His always simmering emotions boiled and he snapped, “Look. I’m here for a drink, like you asked. My personal life is none of your business. You got that?”
A flash of hurt and humiliation accompanied her crumbling smile. One instant she’d been bubbling with life, the next he’d crushed it right out of her. Good going, Johnny. He had no business being around people.
She recovered just as quickly, though, straightening her shoulders and sticking out her chest, eyes narrowing, as if this routine was nothing new to her. “Sorry for crossing the line, Doctor.” She slipped off the bar stool and gathered her things and the glass. “Thanks for the beer.” Then she wandered over to a group of nurses a few stools away and joined in with their chatter.
He chugged down the last of his beer, not touching the second glass. “How much do I owe you?” he asked the bartender.
He knew he had no business pretending to be like everyone else. He should never have let the pretty little nurse talk him into it. He was only good for one thing, and that was fixing kids with broken bones.
As for the rest of his life, well, that had officially ended the day his newly pregnant wife had gone to work and died on the twenty-second floor of the twin towers.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_a29461d9-83c1-5da0-8d43-43247c0d6b5f)
POLLY HAD SPENT the entire subway ride home seething over Dr. Griffin’s sour attitude. What had she done to turn him against her? After a little cajoling he’d smiled and agreed to go to the bar with his staff. They’d had a brisk and energizing walk to the pub, enjoying the late afternoon sun and moderate June weather. He’d allowed her to buy him a drink, and he’d even made a grand gesture of buying the next round for everyone else.
All had seemed to go according to plan in the people-pleasing biz.
Then she’d asked about his family and the vault door had clanged shut. It hadn’t been mere irritation she’d seen flash in his dark, brooding eyes, it had been fury. Plain and simple.
As she prepared for bed in her tiny rented room on the Lower East Side, where the shared bathroom and kitchen were considered privileges in the five-story walk-up, she couldn’t stop thinking how she’d messed up that night. Clearly, she’d overstepped her bounds with Dr. Griffin. But how? Didn’t everyone love to talk about themselves and their families? That was, everyone except people like her who had miserable memories of feeling unwanted and unloved, like she’d had since her mother had died when Polly had been only six.
She put her head on the thin pillow and adjusted to the lumpy mattress. Of course! How could she be so blind? The man was miserable with his staff. He didn’t like to socialize. She’d dragged him out of his comfort zone and asked him about something very personal—his family—then everything had backfired. Something horrible had happened to that man to make him the way he was. Surely, no one wanted to be that miserable without a good reason.
She had to quit assuming that she was the only person in the world with family issues and that everyone else lived hunky-dory lives. Obviously, Dr. Griffin wasn’t happy about his family situation and she’d hit a nerve with her line of questioning. Maybe he’d gone through a messy divorce. Maybe his wife had cheated on him. Who knew? But he’d attacked with vengeance when she’d dared to get too personal.
She’d let down her guard, let him skewer her with his angry retort, then, wounded and hurt, she’d brushed him off and moved on. In her world it was called survival, but he’d seen a flash of her true self the instant before she’d covered it up, just as she’d seen his. Well, touché, Dr. Griffin.
Polly folded her hands behind her head and in the dim light stared at the cracked ceiling and chipped paint—what could she expect from an apartment built before World War I?—and thought harder. Maybe she’d inadvertently hurt him as much as he’d hurt her, and, man, she’d felt his anger slice right through her. John Griffin wasn’t a person to be on the bad side of. Somehow she’d have to make up for it.
Her eyes grew heavy from the two beers she’d enjoyed at the pub, but one last thought held out until she acknowledged it so she could drift off to sleep with a good conscience. She owed Dr. John Griffin an apology, and first thing tomorrow morning she’d give it to him.
* * *
The next morning at work, Dr. Griffin was nowhere to be found. Polly realized during report that Tuesdays and Thursdays were his scheduled surgery days, and felt a mixture of relief and impatience about getting her apology over and done with. She’d never make the mistake of including her boss in any social event again, even though the staff was already talking about another pub night in two weeks. Something else she noticed today was that everyone smiled at her, which made her feel good and far more a part of the team than she had yesterday. At least she’d succeeded in pleasing some people around here.
Her patient assignment was heavy, and although she only had two patients, each needed a great deal of care. Charley was sixteen and in a private room after he’d taken a header on his skateboard, breaking several bones and his pelvis. Her second patient was in surgery and would arrive later in the day after a short stint in the recovery room. Fifteen-year-old Annabelle would also have a private room, having undergone an above-the-knee transfemoral amputation for localized Ewing sarcoma of the lower part of the right femur.
Polly’s heart ached for her patient. She’d already been briefed that a team of social workers, psychologists, occupational and physical therapists, as well as wound-care specialists, would be participating in her recovery. Polly would take care of the nursing portion, and for today it would mostly be post-operative care—basic and important for pain control and maintaining strong vital signs. She’d guard against any post-op complications, such as bleeding or infection, to the best of her ability. Tomorrow the reality of being a teenager with a leg amputation would require help from each and every member of that specially organized medical team.
“Here, Charley.” Polly handed a washcloth lathered with soap to her shattered-pelvis patient. “You wash your face, neck and chest. I’ll help with your back when you’re ready.”
She believed in letting patients do as much for themselves as possible. Fortunately, Charley had one good arm, and with the overhead frame with trapeze he could lift himself enough to allow her to change the sheets and replace the sheepskin beneath his hips.
She kept a doubled sheet over his waist to give him privacy as they progressed with his bed bath. “Do you miss school?”
He gave a wry laugh. “I miss my friends.”
“How are you going to keep up with your studies while you recover?”
He scrubbed his smooth face and chest with the cloth. “They’re going to send out a tutor or something. School’s almost out for summer break anyway. What really sucks is I was supposed to start driver’s training next month.”
“Do people even drive cars in New York?”
“I live in Riverdale.”
Polly didn’t have a clue where Riverdale was but assumed it was a suburb of the city. She’d never, ever want to attempt driving in New York, where being a pedestrian was risky enough.
She washed his back and changed the linen, keeping casual and friendly banter going. “Have you got a girlfriend?”
“Nah. We broke up.”
Uh-oh, here she went again, venturing into personal information that might cause pain. Would she ever learn her lesson? At least he hadn’t bitten her head off like Dr. Griffin had. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. All she ever wanted was for me to buy her stuff, anyway.”
Whew. “Sometimes teenage girls can be very superficial.”
“Dude, tell me about it.”
Polly gathered the soiled linen she’d heaped onto the floor and shoved it into the dirty-linen hamper just as the door swung open. “Well, look here, perfect timing. Lunch!”
The tall, bronze and buff dietary worker brought in Charley’s lunch tray and placed it on the bedside table. Polly washed her hands and checked to make sure they’d delivered the right diet, with extra protein and calories for the growing and healing boy, then left him alone to eat with the TV on while she got his noontime medicine.
When she returned from her own lunch-break the ward clerk informed her that Annabelle was on her way up from Recovery. Polly rushed to the private room to make sure everything was in order then quickly checked up on Charley, who was fine and playing a video game. She explained she’d be busy for a while but made sure his call light and urinal were within reach in case he needed them.
Just as she exited the room she saw the orderly pull a gurney out of the elevator. At the other end was Dr. Griffin in OR scrubs. It was the first time she’d seen him that day and, taken by surprise, her stomach did a little clutch and jump. Would he still be furious with her?
Focused solely on the task, Dr. Griffin helped get Annabelle into her room. Polly jumped in. “I’ll get this, Dr. Griffin.”
He let her take the end of the gurney but followed her into the room. She’d pulled down the covers on the hospital bed and had already padded the bed with a layer of thin bath blanket, an absorbent pad and had topped both with a draw sheet in preparation for her patient. She checked to make sure the IV was in place and had plenty of fluid left in the IV bag. Annabelle was in a deep dream state, most of her right leg was missing and the stump was bandaged thickly and thoroughly.
“Careful,” Dr. Griffin warned the orderly as he lowered the side rail on the gurney and prepared to transfer the patient to the bed.
Polly rushed to the other side of the bed, got on her knees on the mattress and leaned over to grab the pull-sheet underneath Annabelle toward her. To her surprise, Dr. Griffin came around to her side of the bed and helped out.
“On the count of three,” Polly said, as the orderly prepared to pass the patient over from the gurney while they all tugged her onto the mattress. After she counted, they made a quick and smooth transfer. The patient moaned briefly and her eyes fluttered open, but she quickly went back to sleep.
As the orderly left the room Dr. Griffin gave a rundown of Annabelle’s vital signs, a job the recovery nurse usually did over the phone, giving Polly the impression of how important the operation and follow-up care were to this orthopedic surgeon.
He ran down the list of antibiotics and pain-medication orders as Polly listened and adjusted the pillow under Annabelle’s head. Next she placed the amputated stump on a pillow, checked the dressing for signs of bleeding or drainage, circling a quarter-sized area with her marker and noting the time, then made sure the Jackson-Pratt drain was in place and with proper suction before pulling up the covers.
Dr. Griffin ran his hand lightly over his patient’s forehead, gently removing her OR cap and releasing a blanket of thick and shining brown hair. Such a tender gesture for an angry man.
“I’ll check back later,” he said, giving Annabelle one last, earnest glance before leaving the room. Polly almost expected him to kiss the girl’s forehead from that sincere, loving parent-type look in his eyes.
How could she stay mad at a man like that?
