The Patient Nurse. Diana Palmer

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      “The charlady, in person,” he’d commented coldly, glaring at her eternal jeans and sweatshirt. “You couldn’t wear a dress for the occasion?”

      “I didn’t want to come,” she replied furiously. “You made me!”

      “God knows why,” he returned with another cold survey of her person.

      She couldn’t think of anything to say to him. She felt and looked out of place.

      He’d moved closer and she’d backed away. The expression on his face had been priceless. Sadly, her instinctive action had led to something even worse.

      “Do I repulse you?” he’d murmured, coming closer until she was backed to the sink. “Amazing, that such a shadow of a woman would refuse any semblance of ardent notice on the part of a man, even a repulsive man.”

      She’d shivered at his tone and crossed her arms across her sweatshirt defensively. “A married man.” She’d hurled the words at him.

      His hands had clenched by his side, although the words had the desired effect. He made no more movements toward her. His eyes had searched hers, demanding answers she couldn’t give.

      “Maid of all work,” he’d taunted, “cook and housekeeper and doer of small tasks. Don’t you ever get tired of sainthood?”

      She’d swallowed. “I’d like to go now, please.”

      His chest had risen sharply. “Where would you like to go? Away from me?”

      “You’re married to my cousin,” she’d said through her teeth, fighting down an attraction that made her sick all over.

      “Of course I am, house sparrow,” he’d replied. “That beautiful, charming woman with the saintly face and body is all mine. Other men are sick with jealousy of what I have. Isadora, bright and beautiful, with my ring on her finger.”

      “Yes, she is…lovely.” She’d choked.

      His fury had been a little intimidating. Those black eyes were like swords, cutting at her. He hated her, and she knew it. Only she didn’t know why. She’d never hurt him.

      He’d moved aside then, with that innate courtesy and formality that was part of him.

      “I grew up in a barrio in Havana,” he murmured quietly. “My parents struggled to get through college, to educate themselves enough to get out of the poverty. When we came to the States, we rose in position and wealth, but I haven’t forgotten my beginnings. Part of me has nothing but contempt for those people in there—” he jerked his head toward the living room “—content in their pure country-club environment, ignorant of the ways poverty can twist a soul.”

      “Why are you talking to me like this?” she’d asked.

      His face had softened, just a little. “Because you’ve known poverty,” he replied, surprising her. She hadn’t realized he knew anything about her. “Your parents were farmers, weren’t they?”

      She nodded. “They didn’t get along very well with Aunt Mary and Uncle Hal,” she confided. “Except for public opinion, I’d have gone to an orphanage when they were killed.”

      He knew what she meant. “And would an orphanage have been so much worse?”

      The question had taunted her, then and now. It was as if he knew what her life had been like with the Kensingtons, her father’s brother and sister-in-law, and beautiful Isadora. Ridiculous, of course, to think that he understood.

      On the other hand, she wondered if Isadora had ever understood him, or how his childhood had shaped him into the adult he was now. He never refused an indigent patient, or turned his back on anyone who needed help. He was the most generous man she’d ever know.

      Isadora hated that facet of his personality.

      “He gives money away to people on the street, can you believe it?” Isadora had asked at Christmas the second year of her marriage. “We had an unholy row about it. They’re the flotsam of the earth. You don’t give money to people like that!”

      Noreen didn’t say a word. She frequently contributed what little she could spare to a food fund for the homeless, even volunteering during holidays to help serve it.

      One day during the holidays, to her amazement, she’d found Ramon putting on an apron over his suit to join her at the serving line.

      “Don’t look so shocked,” he’d said at her expression. “Half the staff sneaks down here at one time or another to do what they can.”

      She’d ladled soup at his side for an hour in the crowded confines, sick with gratitude for her own meager income and a roof over her head as the hopeless poor of the city crowded into the warmth of the hall for a hot meal. Tears had stung her eyes as a woman with two small children had smiled and thanked them for their one meal of the day.

      Ramon’s hand had come up into hers with a handkerchief. “No ¡hagas!” he’d whispered in Spanish. Don’t do that.

      “I don’t imagine you ever shed tears,” she’d muttered as she wiped her eyes unobtrusively with the spotless white handkerchief that smelled of exotic spices.

      He’d laughed softly. “No?”

      She glanced at him curiously.

      “I care about my patients,” he told her quietly. “I’m not made of stone, when I lose one.”

      She averted her eyes to the soup and concentrated on putting it into the bowls. “Latins are passionate about everything, they say,” she’d murmured without thinking.

      “About everything,” he’d replied in a tone that made her shiver inexplicably.

      She’d tried to give him back the handkerchief, but he’d refused it at first.

      His eyes had been cruel as they met hers over it. “Put it under your pillow,” he’d chided. “Perhaps the dreams it inspires will make up for the emptiness in your life.”

      Her gasp of shock had seemed to bring him to his senses.

      “I beg your pardon,” he’d replied stiffly. And, taking the handkerchief back, he’d shoved it into his slacks pocket as if the sight of it angered him.

      Over the years there had been other incidents. Once she’d been summoned by Isadora to drive her downtown when Ramon had refused to let her use the Jaguar.

      She’d barely been admitted by the flustered maid when she heard the furious voices coming from the living room.

      “I’ll spend what I like!” Isadora was yelling at her husband. “God knows, I deserve a few luxuries, since I don’t have a husband! You spend every waking hour at the office or in the hospital! We never have meals together! We don’t even sleep together…!”

      “Isadora!” Noreen had called, to alert her cousin to her appearance before the argument got any hotter.

      “What’s she doing here?” Noreen heard Ramon СКАЧАТЬ