Chapter 11Aiden
Chapter Eleven
Aiden
A fond smile remained on my face as Mrs. Reynolds slowly walked away, supported on one side by her daughter. Heat exhaustion had crept up on her during the hot afternoon, but at least she’d come to see me before it became serious. Now she was on her way home to spend the rest of the day in air-conditioned comfort.
“Excuse me?”
I knew that voice. The years might have passed, but some things remain forever. At the tension in it, I snapped my head around, heart hitching when I saw Stella. She stood at the tent entrance, clutching a wad of paper towels to her left hand—a blotch of crimson blooming through the white. And steadily growing.
“Maria. Kit,” I said crisply, already moving.
Maria nodded, understanding flashing in her eyes. She grabbed the supply cart just as I reached Stella’s side. “What happened?”
“Cut myself with my knife,” she replied, trying to mask her distress with nonchalance, but the tightness in her jaw betrayed the pain she felt. “I haven’t done that in years! ”
“Let me see.” My fingers brushed against hers as I gently pried the makeshift bandage away. The sight of the deep gash brought a clinical clarity to my thoughts. “We need to clean this up and get a good look at it.”
“Can’t you just slap a Band-Aid on it? I’ve got?—”
“Stella, this is serious.” My tone left no room for argument as I led her to the back of my tent, where two makeshift examination tables were set up. Maria had laid out the necessary supplies, her efficiency a silent blessing.
“Sit,” I instructed, helping Stella onto the edge of the table Mrs. Reynolds hadn’t used. We hadn’t had a chance to clean it yet.
Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the vibrant red of her wound. “Thanks, Aiden.”
“Of course.”
I removed the paper towels to expose a fairly impressive laceration nearly two inches long on the outside of her palm. As I cleaned the cut meticulously, Stella hissed through her teeth. I met her eyes briefly, offering a silent apology before continuing.
“Looks like you’ll need a few stitches,” I told her, trying to keep my voice light. “You’re in good hands, though.”
“You’ve done this before, right?” Stella managed a smile, though her eyes couldn’t hide the discomfort.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I joked, hoping to ease the tension as I opened the suture kit Maria had laid out and prepared the needle. “Don’t worry, I’ve stitched up plenty of people. And one pot-bellied pig too.”
She laughed, and it had the effect I was going for. Her shoulders dropped and her hand relaxed slightly in mine. I reached for a syringe and a vial of one-percent lidocaine, preparing to numb her hand.
“Hold on a second,” she said as I glanced up at her. “I can’t have my hand numb. I need to go back to work.”
“Stella, this is going to hurt without the local anesthetic.”
She frowned, her brows drawing together. “It’s just a few stitches. I’ll be fine. Your pig-stitching experience has filled me with confidence in your abilities.”
I didn’t smile back this time. “You sure?”
“Yes. Just go quickly.”
“Let me know if it’s too much.”
As I took her hand and placed it on my impromptu operating table, I allowed myself a fleeting moment to revel in the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips, the delicate lines of her hand that I once knew by heart. But one moment was all.
As I placed the first stitch, Stella pressed her lips tightly together. She had always been strong, never one to show vulnerability. Throughout the day, I’d stolen glances at her booth several times. I couldn’t help noticing how the years had both changed and preserved her—the same dark glossy hair that caught the sunlight, the same fierce independence etched into the curve of her jaw. The sight of her was a bittersweet pang, a reminder of what could have been and what we had lost along the way. What I had lost.
And yet here she was right next to me. “Doing okay?”
She nodded, a small but reassuring gesture, and I continued. “How are the new orchids doing?”
“Oh! They’re adjusting beautifully.”
My distraction worked. I figured if anything would take her mind off her discomfort, it would be her favorite flowers. She went on to discuss the merits of each.
“What are they called again?”
She gave me both the common and Latin names, and I hummed appreciatively, though not committing the names to memory. That wasn’t the point. Her hand relaxed a little in mine. The stitches had to hurt, but she was holding up to the discomfort well. I placed four stitches quickly and efficiently, then looked up. “There. All done.”
“I have to compliment you on your bedside manner.” Stella’s voice was laced with a combination of pain and humor that made the corners of my mouth twitch upward .
I still held her hand in mine, reluctant to let go, and gave her a smile. “Thank you. I aim to please.”
Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us—a current as tangible as the sea breeze that wafted through the canvas tent. We lingered there, in that long look, the world around us fading to a distant murmur.
Then I returned to the soft, yet incredibly tough hand I held. “Just take it easy with that hand for a while.”
“Take it easy?” Stella’s voice was laced with a mix of irony and resignation. “There’s no way Felicia can handle all that cooking by herself. Bandage me up so I can go back to work, Dr. Mitchell.”
“As you wish.”
Our eyes held again as we both smiled at the Princess Bride reference. I set about wrapping her hand in gauze, ensuring the bandage was snug but not constricting. If she could handle getting stitches without lidocaine, I figured she was safe to go back to the grill for a couple of hours. As I worked, her fingers brushed against mine, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. The contact was accidental, or so I told myself, yet it lingered like a promise.
“There, all done,” I announced, securing the end of the bandage. “You should be able to get back to work without too much trouble.”
Stella flexed her fingers experimentally, a shadow of concern crossing her features before she nodded. “Yeah. Thank you. I should head back—they’ll need me at the booth.”
“Maybe stay away from knives for the rest of the afternoon.”
She tipped me a wide smile, and I didn’t want her to leave, not yet. Her presence made me feel alive, vibrant even.
“Stella,” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could rein them in. “You still know a lot about boats, right?”
Her laughter was light and genuine, if somewhat tinged with surprise as it filled the space between us. “Of course. Look around! I grew up here.” She gestured vaguely toward the canal where the three boats bobbed gently.
The sound of her laughter was a balm to old wounds that suddenly ached furiously. I wanted more—more time, more laughter. And most of all, more Stella.
“I remember very well.”
Her gaze remained on the fiberglass charter boats. “I helped my dad all the time on those boats. I loved it.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Could you—would you—help me with something boat-related?” The question hung awkwardly in the air, my heart thrumming in anticipation of her response.
“Maybe,” she said, her expression curious. “What do you need?”
“I bought a sailboat. She’s operable but a little rough around the edges. I could really use a hand with the woodwork.” I felt suddenly vulnerable under her steady gaze, reminiscent of when I’d asked her out the first time in tenth grade. “I’m not just a landlubbing doctor, you know.”
“Is that so?” Her eyebrow arched playfully, and it struck me with almost physical force how much I had missed this easy banter with her.
“I’ve always loved sailing. When I moved back here, it made sense to take it up again.” I grinned, hoping the gesture would mask the flutter of nerves in my stomach. “When is your next evening off from Orchid?”
She opened her mouth but hesitated, and I thought for sure a refusal was coming. Stella was anything but stupid. She knew I was asking her out. Then her eyes softened. “Tuesday.”
I resisted the urge to pump my fist. “I’m done at the clinic by five. How’s that sound?”
“That works.” A hint of surprise colored her tone, making me wonder if she was as affected by this rekindling connection as I was.
“Five p.m. at Dove Key marina, then?” I asked, my pulse racing at the thought of seeing her again.
“Yes.” She slipped off the cot and stood, offering me a smile that reached deep into her eyes—maybe a smile that held a whisper of things to come.
As she walked away, I was left with a sense of hope. Perhaps this small town held more for me than just a medical practice. Maybe it held possibility—the possibility of righting the biggest wrong of my life.