EMMAI worked about eight hours over that first weekend at St. Agnes, mostly because I was still trying to catch up and become familiar with all of the patients. In addition to those currently on the floor of the oncology wing, we had others who would be coming in for treatment in the future. I wanted to begin establishing some protocol for integrating natural healing into their care plans from the start. And to be honest, being in the air-conditioned corridors of the hospital was a far cry better than melting in the afternoon heat in my trailer. On Sunday afternoon, Jenny called me just as I left St. Agnes and invited me over to swim and eat dinner. I was pathetically grateful for both the company and the chance to be in a real house. The home she was sub-letting from Nico really was gorgeous. I loved the lush backyard, with flowers and deep green plants surrounding the swimming pool. Jenny made us salads with crusty homemade Italian bread and special vegan cookies for dess

EMMATwenty minutes later, just as the shift was changing and the hospital was transitioning from nighttime vibe into daytime brightness, I dragged my feet down the hallway toward Dr. Girard's office. I hadn't felt this much trepidation and guilt since I was a sophomore in high school.The door was open, and I paused just outside. He was sitting at the desk, his head bent over the keyboard of his computer. As before, he seemed to feel my presence before I made a sound. "I wondered if you'd come, or if you'd just pretend that this morning didn't happen." I sighed, resting my back against the doorjamb and stretching my neck. "I have a quick temper, and I have a tendency to speak before I think. My mother used to say that my mouth went into drive before my brain was engaged. But even so, I don't hold a grudge, and I always own up to my mistakes." "That's good to know." Finally, Dr. Girard looked up. "On the other hand, I'm a stubborn son of a bitch. I have an unfortunate habi

EMMAJenny wrapped her arms around her middle. I could see the tremor in her hands. "You left me. You . . . we made love. And then you were gone. Just . . . gone, with no explanation. You walked away from me, Nico." Her shoulders squared. "No, you fucking ran away from me, like what we did-what was between us-like it didn't matter at all. Like it meant nothing." I was frozen to my spot in the pool, both arms resting on the raft, my eyes wide as they darted from Jenny to Nico. I knew that this was an intensely private moment, and I should get the hell out of here, but I was afraid of what might happen if I reminded either of them of my presence. There wasn't any way for me to get out of the water gracefully. My only other option was to sink underwater, and call me crazy, but I wasn't prepared to drown to give them privacy. "Jen." Nico reached for her hand, and with some effort, pried it loose from where she was gripping her arm. "Jenny. Please. Listen to me. You're right, I did

DEACONI tried to let it go. I intentionally avoided going past Emma's office after I left Angela Spencer's room; I made the rounds to see my other patients, focusing on the real issues and worries that they were facing. Shortly before the end of the day, I met with a man who had just been admitted for his initial treatment for pancreatic cancer. George Brewer was understandably nervous, worried about both his prognosis and his treatment. I was in the middle of reassuring him when Emma knocked on the door. "Oh." She looked momentarily nonplussed when she spotted me sitting in a chair near Mr. Brewer's bed. "I'm sorry, Dea-Dr. Girard. I didn't realize you were in here. I can come back." "No, that's all right." I could be magnanimous, I decided. I had to be professional, after all; I didn't want anyone to get the sense that Angela had teased me about. I wasn't in competition with Emma Carson for the affection or the respect of our patients. "Actually, this is great timing. Mr. Br

DEACON"I hope you have something good to tell me, doctor." Sissie Lewis was perched on the end of her hospital bed like a bird about to take flight. At eighty-three, the woman was spry and peppy, and being around her always made me feel like I was a slacker. I'd known her my entire life-she'd taught me Sunday School in the third grade-and I was fairly certain that she still saw me as the mischievous little boy who'd stolen peppermints from her knitting bag while she was setting up Bible stories on the flannel board. Still, when she'd been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma earlier this year, she hadn't hesitated to come straight to me and request that I manage her treatment. She'd even consented to make the trip over to the Calumbra Center near Tampa until we had the wing up and running here at St. Agnes, despite her misgivings about going to the 'big city' for anything. Miss Sissie had been born and raised in Harper Springs, and in her mind, everything anyone ever neede