“Have you heard anything from her husband?” she asked. “Do you know where he stands?”

“Well, I don’t thinks he’s behind this petition. I just hope he’s not talking to a lawyer.”

“Mike, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. What you did may have been unwise from the standpoint of liability, but it took courage. I’m not at all certain I would have had the guts to do something for her here.”

She stood up, and he followed her to the door.

“Keep your chin up,” he said. He gestured toward the petition on his desk. “I’ll figure out what to do about this. You just concentrate on your work.”

She stopped by the studio that evening to show Tom her design for a new stained glass panel—multicolored hot-air balloons above a green meadow. A little more of a challenge. She could already picture it in the window of the nursery.

Tom looked up from the work table when she walked into the studio.

“Hi.” She pulled the roll of graph paper from her tote bag and set the bag itself on the empty chair by the table. “How are you doing?”

“I’m not sure.” Tom’s voice sounded tight, and when she looked down at him, he crossed his arms across his chest.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, Olivia,” he said, “and I’m just not sure I can teach you any longer.”

She stared at him, wondering if his signature was on the petition. “Because of the things Jonathan Cramer’s been saying about me?”

“Because I don’t know what to believe. Because I think you took a risk with the life of a very good friend of mine. A very precious friend.” There were actual tears in his eyes, ready to spill onto his pale eyelashes.

Olivia put her hands on her hips. “I did everything I could for her, Tom. I didn’t kill her. I feel like people are blaming me because Zachary Pointer’s too far away and too invisible—blaming him doesn’t give them much satisfaction. So I’ve become the scapegoat, but I swear to you, Tom, I did the best I could.”

“Maybe you did, Olivia. I can’t judge. All I know is, I can’t sit here with you week after week, letting you use Annie’s glass and Annie’s tools and Annie’s…”

“All right.” She reached for her tote bag. “You’ve made your point.”

“I could give you the names of a few other people who could teach you, but I have to warn you that the art community here’s pretty tight, and I really doubt any of them would be willing to take you on right now.”

She slipped the graph paper back into her bag, and without another word, left the studio. She let the door slam behind her, and a few people in the parking lot turned to stare at her. Did they know who she was? Did everybody know? She got into her car, and just in case someone was watching, waited until she was out in the street before she let herself cry.

Her shift in the emergency room was nearly over the following night when they got a call about a head-on collision out on the main road. One driver had walked away with scratches, but the driver of the other car, a woman in her early twenties, was seriously injured and was being brought in by ambulance.

“We’ll need a second physician,” Olivia said to Kathy as she readied the treatment room.

“I know,” Kathy said, her voice hesitant, “but it’s Jonathan who’s on call.”

Olivia was at the scrub sink. “Well,” she said, “you’d better get him over here.”

The injured driver and Jonathan arrived at the same time. Jonathan plowed into the treatment room, barking orders, looking as though he were already director of the ER. The patient—a twenty-one-year-old woman—was brought in taped to a backboard and wearing a cervical collar. There was a dark bruise already spreading across her abdomen. She was conscious, though not too coherent, and she moaned with pain.

“Wasn’t wearing a seatbelt,” said the paramedic. “She was lucky she got caught on the steering wheel or she would have gone through the window.”

“Get a C-spine,” Olivia said to Kathy, “and a CBC and type and cross. And do a blood alcohol level, while you’re at it.” She thought she smelled alcohol on the young woman’s breath.

Jonathan started an IV in the woman’s arm. “Is the helicopter on its way?” he asked Lynn Wilkes, who nodded. “We’ll stabilize her and send her up,” he said. Then he looked across the patient at Olivia, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Or do you want to play doctor on her?”

Olivia did not respond. She felt uncertain of their next move with this patient. Her blood pressure was ninety-five over sixty. She was a slender woman who appeared to be in good physical condition. Was that pressure normal for her or an indication of something more ominous? “Pulse is one-ten,” Kathy said, glancing at Olivia.

Olivia carefully palpated the woman’s abdomen. “Abdomen’s firm,” she said, moving her fingers to the woman’s left side. Suddenly the woman groaned, trying to roll away from Olivia’s touch. Was she simply recoiling from pressure on the bruise, or could her spleen be ruptured?

“Let’s tap her abdomen,” Olivia said.

Jonathan scowled at her. “We don’t have time. You want another dead lady on your hands?”

Olivia said nothing more. She followed Jonathan’s lead, helping him prepare the woman for transport, and she felt dizzy as she watched the emergency technicians transfer her to the waiting helicopter. By the time she returned to her office, her legs were weak and rubbery. She sat down at her desk, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes. She’d been a coward. Why was she letting Jonathan intimidate her?

She should have fought him, but she was terrified now—not of Jonathan, not of losing her job—but of her own judgment. If anyone were to ask her just at that moment, as she sat nauseated and trembling at her desk, if she was certain she’d made the right decision in Annie’s case, she could not have said.

She called Emerson Memorial that night and learned that the woman had indeed suffered a ruptured spleen. Jonathan had been right—the extra minutes it would have taken to tap her abdomen could have cost the young woman her life. Olivia wept, partly from relief that the patient was all right, and partly from the realization that she’d been wrong, that right now she could not trust her own ability to make sound decisions in the ER.

She went to bed, overwhelmed by her solitude. At twelve-thirty, she lifted her phone from the night table to her bed and dialed Alec’s number. His voice was thick with sleep when he answered, and she hung up without saying a word.



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


August 1991

Paul walked across Connecticut Avenue, struggling to pull the District of Columbia’s thick, sodden night air into his lungs. You needed gills for this sort of weather. The pink neon sign for Donovan’s Books sprouted from the side of a building half a block in front of him, and he quickened his pace.

Once inside the store he stood by the door for a moment, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief and drinking in the unmitigated splendor of his favorite bookstore in all the world. Olivia’s favorite as well. He missed living here, and he was beginning to miss Olivia.

Nine-thirty at night and the store was packed. Joy. What was open in the Outer Banks at nine-thirty except, perhaps, the bait shops?

He walked slowly through the store, touching books with his fingertips. He’d had poetry readings here on a fairly regular basis. Sunday afternoons, Tuesday evenings. The crowd was always eclectic, always appreciative. Always on his side.

He reached for the stairs in the rear of the store and climbed up to the loft, where he ordered mineral water and a slice of cheesecake from the man at the service counter. Then, carrying his tray, he searched among the small, crowded tables for an empty seat. Two men were just vacating a table near the railing. They offered it to Paul, and he sat down, realizing as he surveyed the store below him that this was the table where he and Olivia had always tried to sit. For the first two years of their marriage, they had lived in an apartment directly across the street. Even after they’d bought the house in Kensington, they’d meet a few times a week at this table, spending hours over mineral water and avocado sandwiches as they worked together on The Wreck of the Eastern Spirit. God, how he had loved writing that book with her.

He’d been at Washington General to cover the illness of a senator when he got word of the train plunging into the Potomac. He was the first reporter to reach the emergency room, and in the chaos of that moment, and during the hours that followed, no one seemed to notice him or monitor his actions.

He saw Olivia for the first time when she was meeting a stretcher-borne victim of the train wreck at the automatic doors to the ER. She was grabbing her long brown hair up into a sloppy, off-center ponytail, slipping a rubber band from her wrist to her hair to hold it in place. Then she and the paramedics whisked the elderly woman past Paul on their way to the trauma room, Olivia pressing a piece of bloody gauze to the wound in the woman’s side, talking calmly to her all the while. Dozens of doctors and nurses worked hard in that ER over the next few days, but Paul could not shift his focus from Olivia. He watched her tell families that their loved ones would either live or die. He watched her softly touch their arms, or hold them when they needed to be held. By the end of those few frightening days, her hair hung limply down her back and her bangs were swept by sweat and grime off her forehead. Her green scrubs were streaked with blood, and dark circles ringed the delicate alabaster skin around her eyes. He thought she was entirely beautiful.

He wished he’d been drawn to Olivia because he was finally ready for someone new, but he knew it was her utterly selfless compassion in the ER that had seduced him, because it reminded him of Annie. The comparison was ridiculous. Annie, with her disregard for time and her totally chaotic approach to life, would have created havoc in an emergency room. It was Olivia’s cool, clinical efficiency that made her so good. It took him a while to realize she was not at all like Annie, but by then he had genuinely fallen in love with her.