“What a nice young man, that Doc Cade is,” Mrs. Kitty Peabody commented as she stepped into the hall, preparing to leave the office. “I’m glad someone’s come to work with you. You needed the help. So is he your boss, dear?” she asked, blinking innocently as she looked up at Belle.
Belle bit the inside of her lips, trying hard to plaster some facsimile of a smile to her face. “No, he’s not my boss. He’s my—” No need to air the dirty family laundry. “He’s my temp. He’s in town on business for the next few weeks, and he needed a place to work, so I took him in.”
“That’s a casual jab, if ever I’ve heard one,” Cade whispered in Belle’s ear as he stepped up behind her. He turned to Mrs. Peabody. “We were married to each other, years ago. She had a hard time getting over me.”
“Definitely a low blow,” Belle said, out of the corner of her mouth.
“I can see why she would,” Mrs. Peabody said to Cade. “If I were fifty years younger …”
Cade stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the woman’s shoulder. “If you were fifty years younger, I’d be sitting on your front-porch swing right now—you do have a front-porch swing, don’t you, Mrs. Peabody?”
The old woman raised her fingertips to her lips and giggled. “No, but if you want to come visit, I’ll have my grandson hang one.”
“You tell me when it’s up, and I’ll be the one to take the maiden swing.” He shot a free and easy wink in Belle’s direction as he escorted the woman to the reception area, while Belle stood there, staring, amazed.
“Who are you?” she asked a minute later when Cade came ambling back down the hallway. “And what did you do with Cade Michael Carter?”
“I’m simply a doctor who’s trying to get along with his partner.”
“Except I’m not your partner, Cade.”
“That’s right. I’m your temp, the one who showed up on your doorstep, begging for work.”
Said with the biggest, brightest grin she’d seen since she’d, well, divorced him. “You’re different,” she commented, moving past him, on her way into the exam room to look after three-year-old Bonnie Thompson, a little girl who was prone to getting hives.
“In a good way?” he asked.
“Guess time will tell,” she said, grabbing Bonnie’s chart from the rack on the door then stepping into the exam room. Once inside, it took her a full ten seconds to find her focus before she turned into a doctor again. “So, Mrs. Thompson, did you make that list of foods, soaps, and things Bonnie commonly comes in contact with, and when, then note the time of her outbreaks?”
The girl’s mother shrugged. “That takes a lot of time, Doctor. I have three other children, and my husband is on the road half the time. I wanted to. Even bought a notebook, and started, but …”
She held the notebook out for Belle to see. First page, marked day one. No entry other than oatmeal, orange juice. Not much to go on. “Does Bonnie drink orange juice every day?” she asked, picking up the child’s arm to look at the red welts popping up below her elbow.
“Yes. In the morning. She loves it!”
“Bonnie,” Belle said, “will you pull up your shirt so I can look at your tummy?”
Bonnie obliged quickly, and Belle found exactly what she expected to find. More welts. The same with the child’s back and bottom. Not severe, not infected. But definitely hives that seemed to come and go at will. “For now, keep her off orange juice. And I know I’ve asked you to switch detergents, but this time I want you to double-wash Bonnie’s clothes separately, first in a detergent without fragrance or brighteners, then the second time in clear water.”
“Did I mention that I have three other children to take care of?” the woman asked, almost irately.
“You did, and I sympathize. But unless you want Bonnie to keep itching, we’re going to have to get aggressive about finding out what’s causing her allergy.”
“Dr. Nelson gave her pills,” Mrs. Thompson replied.
“And I’ve prescribed medication as well. But she can’t go on taking it forever. So I want to find the cause of the problem so we can avoid it altogether.”
“What about some kind of test? Wouldn’t that be better than guessing?”
Guessing often played a part in medical diagnosis but Mrs. Thompson didn’t want to hear that. Of course, Belle hadn’t wanted to hear guesses either when Michael had been undergoing his diagnosis. “The tests are expensive, Mrs. Thompson, and unless something has changed, you have no medical insurance. If you want to pay out of pocket, that’s fine. I’ll have Ellen schedule an appointment with an allergist. Or you can do it the way I’ve suggested, which may take a little longer but in most cases can give us the same diagnosis.” In the meantime, she didn’t have time to waste arguing with a mother who didn’t want the inconvenience of a little extra effort. It angered Belle. Really, truly angered her. Because if there was such an easy, simple fix for Michael, she’d be all over it in a second. No questions, no resentments, no holding back. But hives and Asperger’s were two entirely different things and, in most cases, hives could be cured.
“Why the scowl?” Cade asked, as he hung up his borrowed white coat.
Belle shrugged. “I guess I don’t get it sometimes. One of my patients, a little girl with an unspecified allergy, is getting hives. She’s not sick, they’re not causing her any problems, and I’m keeping them under control with a couple of different meds. But her mother—”
“Let me guess. Not a mother-of-the-year candidate.”
“She’s a good mother, but she doesn’t do enough. Seems put out when I give her suggestions. Wants an easier way out.”
“In other words, not up to your mothering standards?”
“I’m not an über-mom, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She handed her last patient chart to Ellen to file away, then picked up her medical bag, ready to hit the road. “But if there was something I could give to Michael to fix the problems he has, I’d move heaven and earth to give it a try.”
“I know you would,” Cade said, donning his cowboy hat then tipping the brim at Maudie, who practically melted when he followed it up with a wink. “But trust me. Not all mothers have that higher purpose. There are some mothers who weren’t meant to be. One of nature’s practical jokes, I think. But you’re the kind of mother every child should have.” Said in all sincerity. “The kind I wish …” His voice trailed off, and he ended the sentence with a sigh.
“Your flattery scares me, Cade,” Belle said, wondering where that comment had come from. And that sigh, as well as the look in Cade’s eyes when he’d made it—did she see sadness there?
“Then you’re out of practice,” Maudie quipped, breaking up the serious moment and clearly aligning with Cade as she scooted by on her way to the supply closet. “Because most people would be pleased with a compliment from someone like Dr. Carter.”
“Cade, please,” Cade said. “No need to stand on formalities here.”
For the second time Maudie almost melted. Her normally steely eyes turned mushy, and her thin lips unfolded into a generous smile. In fact, she was so smitten with the man she was nearly batting her eyelashes at him. Quite unlike anything Belle had ever witnessed in her office nurse until Cade. Now she was concerned. More than that, she was suspicious. What in the world was Cade up to,