Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
TALIA
His daughter was adorable. She’d lost her front baby teeth and there’d never been a more precious toothless smile.
A daughter.
He had a daughter.
I put my hand over my heart, pressing hard because it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Foster said. “I thought you knew.”
His daughter tugged on his hand. “Daddy, are we going?”
“Yeah.” His eyes were full of more apologies but he didn’t say another word as he let her drag him toward the hotel. The trainer, Jasper, followed.
A daughter.
Foster and Vivienne had a family.
“Talia.” Lyla touched my elbow.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.
When would this stop? Was this some sort of sick joke? His way to torture me?
Lyla moved in front of me, forcing me to make eye contact. “What can I do?”
I shook my head and managed to choke out, “Work. I need to go back to work.”
“Okay.” She looped her arm with mine, taking a step and pulling so hard I had no choice but to walk away.
I’d taken a late lunch break today and come to the coffee shop to talk with Lyla. We’d decided to go for a walk around downtown because her barista, Crystal, was sweet but she gossiped constantly. Neither Lyla nor I trusted her not to eavesdrop.
So my sister and I had wandered downtown, behind the coffee shop and around the hotel, while I’d told Lyla everything Foster had revealed last night.
The underground fights. Arlo’s blackmail. The money. My suspicion that Vivienne had been in love with Foster from the beginning, so she’d gone along with her father’s scheme.
She’d won Foster. And not only had she gotten to claim the title of wife, she’d also given him a beautiful daughter.
A daughter I’d once dreamed of having.
“Goddamn it.” Tears flooded my eyes as we crossed the street, and I furiously blinked them away.
“Well, I’ll give Foster credit for something,” Lyla said as we rounded her building for the alley where I’d parked my Jeep. “He’s brought you out of your emotional shell.”
I slowed my steps, forcing her to do the same. “What? I don’t have an emotional shell.”
“Don’t you?” She gave me a sad smile.
“Seriously? You’re saying this to me today?”
“You’re right. Forget I said anything.”
Unlikely. “Just because I’m private doesn’t mean I have an emotional shell,” I snapped.
“I didn’t say that to pick a fight.” She held up her hands. “Not that we ever fight. Not that you ever fight with anyone. Or cry with anyone. We’re twin sisters and the last time we had a decent argument was in high school.”
My jaw dropped.
“Sorry. Bad timing. I just . . . I can’t help but think that since he’s come to town, you have been more open with me in days than you have in years.”
“You’re praising him for breaking my heart?” I shook my head, as frustration bubbled inside my chest. “Are you trying to make me angry?”
“Um, no? Just stating an observation.”
“Unbelievable.” I stomped away, digging my keys from my coat pocket.
“You’re just proving my point!” she called to my back.
I lifted a hand and flipped her off.
“See?”
I spun around, walking backward for a few steps. “You wanted a good fight. You have one now. Don’t call me for at least two days.”
Lyla shrugged as an infuriating smile spread across her face.
“Three days,” I barked, then turned and stormed around the corner toward my Jeep. I slammed the door too hard and smacked my hand on the wheel. “Ouch. Damn it.”
Thanks to my sister, at least I wouldn’t be crying when I got to the hospital.
An emotional shell? How could she say that? I laughed and smiled and joked all the time. I was happy. I was a blissfully content person.
My molars ground together as I drove to work. I stormed into the locker room to stow my coat and keys, then washed my hands before heading down the hallway, ready to drown myself in work for the next few hours.
“Hi, Rachel,” I said as I stopped at the nurses’ station. “Just wanted to let you know I’m back.”
She was seated behind the counter, eyes glued to a computer screen. Her gaze flicked my way before she glanced to the wall clock over her shoulder. “Long lunch?”
Don’t call her a bitch. Don’t call her a bitch. I forced a smile. “Just the hour. Like usual. Please let me know when my two o’clock appointment gets here.”
“Don’t I always?” Rachel returned her attention to the screen and hummed my dismissal.
This woman’s attitude had frayed my last nerve. But what was I supposed to do? Tattle on her? That would only make it worse.
This wasn’t Lyla’s coffee shop. If my sister had issues with an employee, she could fire them, put out a help-wanted sign and have a new barista within two weeks.
Rachel, for all her personality shortcomings, was a good nurse and manager. Fighting with her would do nothing for me. So I walked away.
“Because I’m a freaking professional,” I muttered to myself.
Dr. Anderson came walking down the hallway, dressed in his usual khaki slacks and white lab coat the same color as his hair.
“Hi, Dr. Anderson.”
“Hi, Talia.”
Talia. I called every doctor at Quincy Memorial Doctor. And they called me Talia. The nurses did too. Not just Rachel, everyone.
No one called me Dr. Eden. Why? Was I not worthy of that title? Was I not worthy of the respect? Was that why Foster had hidden the truth about the underground fights and the blackmail? Was that why Dad had confronted Foster at the gym instead of letting me handle it?
Did everyone see me as weak? Incapable?
“I’m taking off for the day,” he said. “Heading out early so I can take my wife out to dinner. It’s our anniversary, and I’d like to swing by the jewelry store for a little something and the grocery store for flowers.”
“Happy anniversary,” I said, faking more smiles and polite conversation even though I just wanted to go hide in the supply closet. “Where are you going to dinner?”
“Knuckles.”
“Good choice. Though I’m biased.” Not really. Knox’s restaurant was the best in the state. And I was in the mood to fight anyone who disagreed.
“Are you all set here?”
“Yes. I’ve got a couple of routine checkups this afternoon. Otherwise, I’ll do the rounds and handle anything that comes up.”
“Excellent. Dr. Murphy is in the ER until seven. Then Dr. Herrera is on call tonight if you need any help.”
Dr. Murphy. Dr. Herrera.
Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.
“Would you mind checking in on a few patients for me this evening?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
Dr. Anderson gave me a quick summary, then with a dip of his chin, took off for the day, leaving me on my own.
The hospital didn’t have the budget or demand for a doctor on-site twenty-four seven.
We staggered the day and evening shifts, working varying schedules.
There was at least one doctor in the building from seven in the morning to seven in the evening.
On days like today, when we had scheduled appointments, one physician would be in this wing with patient and exam rooms while the other was in the emergency room for walk-in traffic.
When I’d first started my residency, all of my shifts had coincided with Dr. Anderson’s so he could supervise and observe. As my mentor and teacher, we’d worked cases together. But as I’d progressed through that first year, he’d given me more freedom.
Now, three years in and so close to taking my exams and getting my license, I often worked the late afternoon and evening hours alone. It had become my favorite time at the hospital.
Mornings were hectic. The lunch hour was usually too short. But by four or five o’clock, after the nurses’ rotation and the appointment window closed, it was peaceful.
My final appointment was with a woman who’d come in for her yearly exam and a mammogram. After saying goodbye, I left her to get changed while I wandered down the hallway, away from the exam rooms and through the doors that led to the patient rooms for those staying overnight.
The scent of garlic and tomatoes and pasta filled my nose as I passed a nursing assistant carrying a food tray. Dinner tonight must be spaghetti.
I stopped at the third door on the left, knocking before I pushed it open. “Hey, Dante.”
The teenager lying in bed looked as miserable as he had yesterday. “Hey.”
On his table was his own tray of food. The plate was shielded with a metal lid and the glass of milk covered with plastic wrap. “Spaghetti is the best dinner of the week. Need some help with it?”
“I guess,” he mumbled.
I went to the sink to wash my hands for the hundredth time today, then helped him uncover the meal. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I have two broken legs and a broken arm.”
I handed him a fork for his unbroken arm. “Could be worse. You could have a broken neck.”
“Yeah.” Dante poked at his pasta.
“How’s your pain?”
He glanced at the white board on the wall where the pain scale was depicted on the bottom. “Three.”
“Call if it gets above a five.”
“ ’Kay,” he muttered. “My mom is pissed.”
“It’s her job as your mother to be pissed.”
Dante had come into the ER yesterday with a myriad of broken bones.
He was a sophomore in high school. He and a buddy had spent New Year’s Day together.
They’d decided to go sledding off Dante’s roof into a snowdrift in the driveway.
He’d taken the pioneer voyage, which had landed him in the back of an ambulance, destination: Quincy Memorial.
Dr. Murphy had been in the ER yesterday. The fractures had been clean, so he’d set the bones and put them in splints for the night. Then today, after another set of X-rays to make sure everything was aligned, they’d put him in casts.
He was staying tonight for observation, but tomorrow, he’d be on his way home.
Dante’s dad was a firefighter in town. His mom was an accountant. Dante was the oldest of five kids, and according to Dr. Anderson’s recap earlier, his parents were swapping shifts here at the hospital. His mom was due any minute.
“Want to watch some TV while you eat?” I asked, picking up the remote.