All rights reserved.
(c) Copyright Mary Faderan and Colin Firth 2017
The Bartholomew household was quiet the night that
Mike Oates came back from Branford, where Henderson’s
mansion was. No one there had an inkling what Oates went
through.
“Rebecca?” Sophia Bartholomew called out when she
saw her daughter pass their bedroom door, carrying a
suitcase.
“Mum?” Rebecca said without stopping. “I’m in a
hurry.”
“Where are you off to?” Sophia stepped out onto the
hallway. “I’m seeing a suitcase. Going on a trip?”
Rebecca stood stiffly and sighed. “Mum, I’m old
enough. I really must go.”
“Yes, you are old enough, but it would have been good
manners to tell me at least that you were going away for a . . .
trip? Short vacation? This is sudden, after all.”
Rebecca nodded. “OK, yes. Cor and I are going away to
see his parents in California. We . . . he proposed to me last
night.”
“Really?” Sophia leaned back against the wall, her chest
heaving. “Oh, Rebecca!”
“Mum, I’m in love with Cor. He loves me. We want to
be together forever.”
“Ok fine. I . . . I am only thinking selfishly. I have to tell
your father.” Sophia looked as though she was going to cry.
“I left a note on Dad’s desk. He’s left for a meeting.”
“You left a note.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Neither one of us is strong enough to tell your father,
it seems,” Sophia said ruefully.
“I must go. You can understand. I really need to make
this flight.”
“OK, go.” Sophia went to her daughter and hugged her
quickly. “I’ll let your father know.”
“We will be happy, Mummy. I promise,” Rebecca said
with a bright smile.
“Yes, I hope so. I want to help with the wedding plans,
if you’d let me.”
Rebecca looked troubled. “We were going to Vegas.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, well, I must go.”
Sophia straightened up. “Rebecca Bartholomew, I want
this wedding, and I want to help plan it. I do not like running
away to Vegas.”
“OK, OK!” Rebecca said in a rush. “Let me just get to
the airport. I really, really have to leave now!”
“Good. We’re planning a nice wedding, somewhere
where there’s a real church and a real minister, and your dad
is going to take you down the aisle. Understood?”
“OK!” Rebecca went running down the stairs and
disappeared out of the house.
Sophia fell back against the wall and groaned.
“I don’t understand, Marcus,” Leo Bartholomew said
wearily as he sat in a conference room at the hospital that
night. “I have no idea where to find Mike Oates. I’ve agreed
that he can resign. But now that Ralph Corcoran has resigned
too, there doesn’t seem to be anyone good enough to fill the
chief resident spot.”
The man with him was much older and more grim
looking. “So we can’t have the best. What of it? Let’s just make
do, and then we’ll get somebody to do the chief spot.” Marcus
Simonson gave him a quick look sideways.
“I’m sorry. I must have a damn good surgeon at the
helm. It’s stupid to think that we ought to do with what and
who we have. It’s going on to March, and this whole interview
process to find somebody will take as much time and we may
not have anybody at all by July.”
“We still have Cody Tripp until then. Don’t be that
upset.”
“No? I’m damned upset. I need this all ironed out and
the schedule and the whole thing figured out.”
“Well, we don’t have it all figured out. I’ll take
responsibility for it, Leo. Being the hospital CEO, I will help
you. Just know that there will be somebody by July.”
Leo sighed and pushed himself away from the table. “I
need to go home. I have an urgent message from my wife.”
“How is Sophia these days?”
“Oh, well, she’s fine. No real news. Getting all dreamy
about my retiring.”
Marcus’s eyebrows lifted. “Surely, you’re not thinking
about retiring? I can’t handle that!”
“No, no.” Leo smiled without mirth. “I think she
merely has this idea that life with me would be better if I had
less time spent here. That’s about the dream of every
surgeon’s wife.”
“Well, why don’t you try to make her a concession—
get home at the right hour and give her your full attention
there? A lot of wives of doctors complain to me that their
husbands just don’t have time for them any longer.”
Leo nodded thoughtfully. “Yes.” His eyes looked at
Marcus with what seemed like an idea. “Funny how that
brings me to Oates’s resignation.”
“Oh? Why?”
“He said that surgery wasn’t appealing to him any
longer.” Leo got up and walked toward the door. “I’m
thinking he’s become aware that there are more pressing
things than a big and juicy job.”
“Big and juicy—that’s surgery.” Marcus laughed.
“It is not juicy,” Leo said, frowning.
“It depends on how you look at it. Look, Leo, I’ll back
you on this chief resident thing, and then we’ll sleep on it
tonight and things could be better soon. At least by July. See
you tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
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