Chapter 13
Thirteen
The reunion is bustling and happy, and there isn’t much for me to do other than stand back and make sure everyone is having a good time. Especially once they start dinner.
But there’s one member of the family who keeps catching my eye—a little girl, maybe ten or eleven, who really doesn’t look like she feels well. Halfway through dinner, her dad walks her over to a couch in the living room and helps her stretch out, propping a pillow under her head.
I grab a blanket off a nearby chair and walk over. “Everything okay?”
“Thank you,” the dad says as he takes the blanket and drapes it over his daughter. “She’s just got a tummy ache. Is it okay if she rests here for a bit?”
“Of course. I can keep an eye on her.” I look down at the little girl. “Do you want some water? Maybe some ginger ale?”
She gives her head a shallow shake. “I don’t want anything.”
“Hey, Joe,” someone calls from the dining room. “Come tell the story about you and Bree in Chicago.”
Joe looks toward the table, then looks back at me, uncertainty marring his expression.
“I really don’t mind watching her,” I say. “I’m a nurse. So this is totally in my comfort zone.” I can only hope Joe didn’t catch the tiny hitch in my voice as I said the words. I’ve been almost a nurse for so long, it still feels weird to drop the almost and just claim the job title.
“Oh, wow. That’s great then.” He crouches down in front of his daughter. “I won’t be far, okay? If you need me, I’ll be here in seconds.”
As soon as Joe is back in the dining room, I take up the spot he just left, crouching in front of the little girl. “What’s your name, sweetie?” I ask as I brush her hair off her face.
She licks dry lips, her eyelids fluttering closed. “Sabrina,” she says softly.
“Hi, Sabrina. My name’s Megan.”
She’s warm enough that I wish I had a thermometer to take her temperature. She definitely feels like she has a fever.
“Can you tell me what hurts?”
She winces, drawing her knees up to her belly. “My tummy,” she says.
“Do you think you ate something that didn’t sit right? Maybe too many Christmas cookies?”
She shakes her head no. “I haven’t eaten anything.” She frowns, her forehead creasing as she lets out a little whimper. “Ow, ow, ow.”
Suspicion nags at my brain as I look at her curled up form, at the tension in the set of her shoulders. “Sabrina, how long has your tummy hurt? Do you know? Did it hurt before you came to the party?”
“A little,” she says. “Mommy said I might just be hungry.”
“Does it hurt worse now than it did before?”
Sabrina nods.
I move closer and sit on the coffee table, debating my next steps.
It’s probably nothing. When kids have a stomachache, it usually is nothing.
But Sabrina’s pain seems severe. With the fever and her lack of appetite, it could be something more serious. Appendicitis, maybe. And if that’s what it is, Sabrina needs to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.
I reach out and put a tentative hand on her knee. “Hey, do you think you can lower your legs for me? Just long enough to point out where you’re hurting.”
At first, Sabrina shakes her head.
“If we’re really quick?” I say.
Slowly, she lowers her legs, letting out another whimper as she does. I move my hand to the lower right quadrant of her abdomen and lightly press against the outside of her party dress. “Right here?”
She nods, then cries, “I want my dad.”
I pull the blanket back over her. “Let me get him for you, okay?”
I hurry to the dining room and motion for Joe to get back to his daughter, then I make a beeline for Noah’s room.
I’m pretty sure it’s appendicitis. But I’m not technically a nurse yet—not until I pass my licensing exam. Can I really be sure enough to break up a reunion and send a family down the mountain to the hospital in Silver Creek?
Maybe—if I were the only one here.
But I’m not. And I’m guessing Noah has diagnosed appendicitis a lot more times than I have.
I knock on his door, heart hammering.
“Noah?” I call, knocking again when he doesn’t answer, this time with a little more urgency.
Finally, the door swings open. And oh. Oh my.
It’s like my earlier imaginings conjured him because Noah is standing in front of me very, very shirtless.
Sweatpants sitting low on his hips. Bare chest. Shower damp hair.
And the tattoo on his forearm—I can see the whole thing now since there’s no shirt to block my view.
It’s a tree, branches and leaves growing up his arm and wrapping around his bicep.
I have never been so disappointed that my ethical and moral duty requires me to ignore the glorious sight of Noah’s torso and focus on the crisis at hand.
“Hi,” I manage to say, my voice a little too breathless. “Are you busy?”
“Not at all. Is everything okay?” He still has a towel in his hand, and he uses it to reach up and dry off his hair.
“I don’t think so, actually. I’m pretty sure there’s a little girl on the living room couch who has appendicitis.”
He frowns, tossing his towel onto the bed. “How sure is pretty sure?” He turns and walks to his dresser where he riffles through a drawer and pulls out a t-shirt, tugging it over his head.
“She has a fever. Hasn’t eaten anything since she got here but has intense pain on the lower right side of her abdomen. I know I could just send them to the hospital, but I’m pretty sure that would end the party, so I wanted to see if you would examine her first. Just to make sure.”
He nods. “It’s fine. You were right to come get me.” He quickly retrieves a duffel bag from under his bed and pulls out a stethoscope, filling me with an immediate sense of relief that he’s willing to help. “Let’s go,” he says, and then we’re off.
When we make it back to the living room, Joe has Sabrina in his lap, and a woman I assume is his wife has joined him, the worry on her face a mirror of her husband’s.
“She’s not okay, is she?” Joe asks as I approach.
Instead of answering, I step to the side and motion to Noah. “Joe, this is my friend, Noah, and he’s a doctor. I think you should let him take a look at Sabrina, okay?”
Joe quickly agrees, and Noah makes quick work of examining the little girl. Most of the family has abandoned the dining room, instead hovering around the edges of the room as they watch Noah work.
Just like yesterday when he was taking care of me, his movements are quick and sure, his voice steady.
He explains to Sabrina and her dad exactly what he’s doing as he palpates her abdomen, then uses his stethoscope to listen for bowel sounds.
I’ll never claim that I don’t appreciate toned abdominal muscles or defined biceps.
It’s nice that Noah has those. But I would argue that at the end of the day, I’m most attracted to competence.
To skill. Seeing Noah do something he has trained years to do is incredibly sexy.
When he finishes his exam, he glances at me and nods.
It feels good to be right, but I hate what this means for Sabrina. Because she’s going to wake up on Christmas morning in a hospital bed.
Noah helps Sabrina into her dad’s arms, then walks with them to the front door.
At this point, they can drive down to the hospital faster than an ambulance could make it here, then make the same journey back down the mountain, but Noah promises to call ahead and make sure the hospital is ready for them.
In a matter of minutes, the rest of the Petersons are all preparing to go, gathering coats and bags and the Christmas presents they exchanged before dinner.
I can’t truly blame them. It would feel strange to keep the party going, but as I overhear everyone talking, it sounds more like they’re simply relocating—taking the party to the hospital so they can all stay abreast of Sabrina’s well-being.
As soon as I hear this is the plan, I help the catering staff pack up the triple chocolate cheesecake the family was supposed to have for dessert.
I’m in the kitchen, elbow deep in to-go containers, when I see Noah step out of his room, his boots and coat on, and move toward the back door. I frown as I take in the sight of him. Something seems off. There’s tension in his shoulders and through his jaw, and his brow is furrowed.
“Noah,” I call, but he doesn’t stop or even glance in my direction. I watch as he opens the door and disappears into the darkness, closing it behind him with a resounding thud.
The kitchen is noisy, so it’s possible he just didn’t hear me call out to him.
Then again, it’s not lost on me that Noah came to Stonebrook Farm to get away from practicing medicine, and now, two days in a row, he’s been asked to do just that.
He didn’t hesitate to help Sabrina—he wouldn’t.
Just like he didn’t hesitate to help me.
But during our conversation last night, I didn’t get the impression that Noah has done much processing.
With the end of his six weeks looming, and now, back-to-back evenings where he’s been required to be the doctor he isn’t sure he wants to be—it would make sense if he’s upset. Or at least feeling really overwhelmed.
“Okay, that’s the last of it,” Kendra says.
Stonebrook’s catering manager has been standing beside me, slicing cheesecake, then shifting it over to me to place in individually portioned containers.
But that was the last slice, which means we’re done.
She takes the remaining containers and adds them to a bag at her feet.
“Perfect. Thank you,” I say. “I’ll walk these out front.”
“Take these too,” Kendra says, retrieving a covered tray of Christmas cookies. “Tell them we put plastic silverware in the bag.”
It takes another ten minutes to get the last of the Petersons out the door. There are missing coats and a missing wallet and a little boy who somehow managed to lose only one of his socks.
Through every eternally long moment, all I can think about is Noah. Is he okay? Is he upset? Does he need me?