“Did you get happy, too, when it was over?”
“Oddly enough, yes. Even though I didn’t end up with the love of my life like she did, I got happy. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t so torn between my obligations any longer—obligations like trying keeping the hospital funded and keeping my wife happy at the same time, which was nearly impossible since the expectations of both seemed to always be on a collision course with each other. So, you said you’re a little bitter, but is there any happiness in there for you now that you’re single again?”
“I’m getting happy. I’ve got a ways to go, but the biggest part, I think, is that I’ve found what I was meant to do. My work defines me, and being back here on Kijé, traipsing around in the mountains with Frère Léon, that’s what makes me happy.”
Paul spooned a bite of ice cream from the bowl, then raised it in the air for a toast. “Here’s to getting happy, one and all.”
Solange chinked ice-cream spoons with him, then smiled shyly. “I really am sorry for getting so grumpy and making all kinds of assumptions. Mood swings…Living in the mountains will do that to you, I think.”
“Apology accepted. Look, I’ve got to get back to Bertrand’s little soirée. Believe me, I’d much rather spend the rest of the evening here with you, but that’s what I do. I mingle with the people who will give me money, and there’s a lot of money to be had in there if I make the right connections. So what I’d like to do is take you back to my hospital in the morning, introduce you to the staff, get you acquainted with what we have available, then maybe travel up the mountain with you, if that’s OK. I have a few days before I need to leave Kijé, and since I’m going to get to show you mine, I’d love to have you show me yours.”
“You are talking hospital?” she asked, scooping up the last bite of ice cream.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And just why would you want to come back to my infirmary?”
“I need a reason?”
Solange laughed, then wrinkled her nose at him. “You’re not an easy man, Dr Killian.”
“That’s the reason,” he replied. “The way you do that cute little wrinkle to your nose. I’d like to spend more time with that wrinkle, get to know it better.”
“Not good enough since that wrinkle is strictly off limits to everybody now.”
“OK, I’d like to catch up with Frère Léon. Haven’t seen him for quite a while and he’s an old friend, so I’d like to see how he’s doing. Give him his yearly physical.”
“His physical? You’re telling me you’re Frère Léon’s physician?”
Paul dropped his linen napkin onto the table, then stood. “Yep, that’s what I’m telling you. So, have you made sleeping arrangements for the night?”
“The hotel is booked solid. I checked earlier. So I thought I’d probably go sleep in my truck.”
“Stay here tonight, Solange. In my room. I have two beds, and I know you’re dying to stretch out in the bathtub.”
“I appreciate the offer, Paul, but I’ll be fine in the truck. Really.”
He knew she would. Solange had a survivor’s heart. “Then you take the room alone tonight and I’ll sleep in the truck. And you can help yourself to all the bubble bath and perfumed soap you want.”
“I don’t want to chase you out of your bed. Believe me, I’ve spent many nights in the truck. It’s not a problem.”
“Where did you do your medical residency?”
“Chicago. Cook County Hospital.”
Cook County—one of the oldest and largest charity hospitals in the United States. That was impressive because by reputation it was demanding and by patient load grueling.
“Well, as you were at Cook County, I’m sure that you’re familiar with the old medical tradition called the on-call room?” Where beleaguered doctors on call, needed to be up and working at a moment’s notice, piled together in rooms full of beds simply to grab a little sleep any way they could, anywhere they could, until their services were next required.
“I’ve had my share of familiarity in on-call rooms. Hated the snorers, though.” She wrinkled her nose again. “Had enough of sleeping next to those in my days.”
“I don’t snore,” he said, heading to the door. “So consider this your on-call room for the night. Take either of the beds you want, and if you snore, and it disturbs me, I’ll wake you up and send you out to your truck. OK?”
Asking her to sleep in his room? Inviting her back to his hospital? Even thinking into next week and next month and next year and seeing Solange there? Outside in the hall, Paul leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. This was crazy. Absolutely crazy! “Not smart,” he muttered, straightening up and tugging his silk bow tie back into place.
Even now, though, realizing just how stupid this was, simply thinking about Solange Léandre still took his breath away.
In the bathtub, Solange watched the steam mist over the mirror before she shut her eyes and allowed herself to drift. Maybe eating Paul’s lobster, stretching out in his bubble bath and sleeping in his bed weren’t the wisest things to do…Maybe they were downright stupid…But Paul wasn’t like Mauricio, even though she tried to force the similarities on him. Not like him at all, which was the best thing that had happened to her in a long while. And he was so attractive, something she really shouldn’t be thinking about, even though she was. He was nice, too. A man who knew what he was about, and she liked that.
On that pleasant note Solange relaxed into her bath, let the raspberry-scented bubbles slide over her skin, and wiped everything out of her mind. Everything except, perhaps, the notion of what it might feel like to have Paul immersed in the raspberry bubbles with her.
CHAPTER THREE
SOLANGE was fascinated by the little town of Abbeville. She hadn’t been there before, and as she drove through the streets, following Paul’s SUV, she was tempted to stop and get out, walk around, greet the people, soak in the atmosphere. It was a friendly place from first impressions. Friendly, and alive with color. The short, straight dirt roads were lined with tiny wood-frame houses, each one painted in hues so bright it looked like an artist’s palette gone wild. Pinks and blues, reds and oranges…no color was too bold. No yard so ornamented and cluttered as to be gaudy either, judging from the cement statuary submitting to every imaginable form—elves and geese and pigs—all adorning the grassy patches outside the houses. And there were old rusty vehicles parked where the statuary wasn’t sitting, and over-stuffed couches and indoor beds pulled out onto the porches for easy outdoor living and to catch the cool, evening Kijé breezes.
It was an amazing splash of culture. Noisy street vendors selling everything from their push carts—fruits, shoes, cigarettes. People waving to her as she drove by, children chasing balls and kicking cans across the dirt road, dogs stretched out napping in the middle of the road and too lazy to move out of the way as Paul honked at them.
Seeing Abbeville in its fullest, everyday array made her love Kijé all the more.
“How did you find this place?” she asked Paul several minutes later, as they approached the wood-framed Killian Hospital. Unlike the other structures in Abbeville, it was white. Plain, dignified white, with no cement statuary, furniture or old vehicles in its yard.
“Frère Léon.”
“He does get around, doesn’t he?”
Paul nodded,