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The Impostor
Pamela Triolo

FIRST EDITION

HARDCOVER ISBN: 978-1-939288-83-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-939288-82-0

PAPERBACK ISBN: 978-1-939288-81-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014950383

The Impostor: A Medical Mystery. Copyright © 2014. No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced, or transmitted in any form without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Publisher and editor are not liable for any typographical errors, content mistakes, inaccuracies, or omissions related to the information in this book.

The Impostor: A Medical Mystery is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Post Oak, An Imprint of Wyatt-MacKenzie
postoak@wyattmackenzie.com

Praise for Triolo’s Death Without Cause

“Triolo has masterfully woven a gripping mystery deep within the health care system … A true page turner.” Gwen Sherwood, Author and Co-Editor of Quality and Safety in Nursing and books on Reflective Practice

“Pamela Triolo, debut mystery author, has penned a hit with her first book!” Eleanor Sullivan, Author of Cover Her Body and Graven Images, the Monika Everhardt Medical Mystery Series and other books

“The detailed description of the almost nameless antagonist and the warm and realistic depiction of the protagonist provide for a page-turning novel that forces one to read right up to the epilogue and leaves us hoping for more!” Sally Hartwig, Amazon Review

“Fast going, exquisite attention to medical detail and engaging characters make Death Without Cause a winner.” Sharon D’Orsie, Amazon Review

“Her writing is cinematic … It’s not often that a book grabs you from the get-go and doesn’t let go until the end. This is one of those books.” Dina Colman, Author, Four Quadrant Living: Making Healthy Living Your New Way of Life

“Death Without Cause is a page turner that holds the reader’s attention from beginning to end. Her characters are interesting and realistic, compassionate and intelligent. For the layman, the story is enlightening and for the healthcare professional, especially nurses, it is a story to make us proud.” Ann McKennis, Amazon Review

“Pamela Triolo’s in depth of knowledge of nursing and hospitals shows as she carefully crafts the technical and interpersonal challenges of solving this mystery … Her characters are realistic and personable and you care very much about them and the victims.” Cindy Wigglesworth, Author of SQ 21: The Twenty-One Skills of Spiritual Intelligence

“This novel was refreshing as it intertwined accurate and current health care issues with an intriguing and plausible plot. Unlike some medical mysteries that tend to be full of inaccuracies as well as overly dramatic, Triolo was spot on with crisis scenarios that were crafted amid an exciting storyline.” Krista Bragg, Amazon Review

“In addition to a riveting storyline, this book provides interesting insight into the inner workings of a hospital critical care unit … The plot is chilling and makes you wonder if something like this could actually happen. A compelling read for a widespread audience and very impressive for a debut novel.” Florence Osmund, Author of Red Clover, Daughters, The Coach House

“Triolo’s deft characterizations make her an author to watch.” Kirkus Reviews

For my dearest father and mother,
who provided for and challenged me.
Thank you for everything.

“Dates of destiny are always on time.”
Anonymous

STACI

“In the middle of this road we call our life I found myself in a dark wood with no clear path through.”

Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Inferno

The dingy highway motel room reeked of a sordid past. The storytellers lingered: cigarette smoke, the musty smell of mold, greasy pizza cardboard, and the sickly sweet odor of death. The ancient window air conditioner rattled and wheezed like the diesel engine of a pickup. Sweat trickled down Staci’s back. She needed a shower, badly. First she had work to do.

She sat at the battered desk in the dimly lit room, cheap vinyl curtains drawn to block prying eyes. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the desk. A young woman stared back, fine features overpowered by a cascade of dirty blonde curls. Green eyes flecked with amber appraised the image in the mirror. She tilted her head to the side and pulled back the curls, securing them with a black scrunchie. High cheekbones and a full mouth emerged, completing the heart-shaped face. She peered closer and gently touched her hairline. A fresh bruise lurked there, purple and yellow, a grim reminder of the choices she had made.

Methodically, she removed everything from the woman’s wallet. She carefully laid the contents on the worn desk: credit cards … useless … she would not touch them. She counted fifty-eight dollars in bills with some change and then saw a traveling nurse agency ID card. There might be something here. An idea began to form. Over the years, survival had always meant having a way out. She had to be prepared to run when her world collapsed. Her mind worked rapidly, calculating potential scenarios. She continued to sort through the cards. Then, like being dealt a full house, she pulled out a Texas driver’s license, an RN license, and—the jackpot—a social security card. When would people learn? She shook her head and smiled sadly.

The young woman had run out of gas on I-45 north of Houston on her way home from work on New Year’s Eve. Staci and Cooper saw her and pulled over in front of her disabled car. He wanted to have some fun. Staci was reluctant but played along. He was constantly getting them into trouble. At twenty-five, he had the maturity of a high school jock kicked off the football team. Over a beer at a local ice house, she had fallen for his story—abusive father, dead mother. Staci couldn’t resist his tousled brown hair, innocent blue eyes that would beg forgiveness, and a Southern drawl that made her insides melt like chocolate lava cake.

Cooper traveled from town to town working rodeos. He picked up extra money as a mule for a cocaine supplier out of Mexico. He lived out of a suitcase, in his truck or, when he had the cash, a motel room. Tonight, they were driving around looking for something to do when they spotted the car. They played the part of a couple of friendly good Samaritans. He had been drinking—too much. Staci and Cooper laughed and joked together, pretending they were on a date. Poor kid, she felt safe and got into their car. Then it went too far.

Staci drove. Cooper sat in the back with the nurse. He grabbed the woman, pulling her close, ripping her clothes and crushing her mouth with a kiss. Staci watched in the rearview mirror, disgust driving burning bile up her throat. He pulled out his knife. The nurse panicked. Her wide eyes, crying out with hope, briefly caught Staci’s in the mirror. Staci looked away. She was driving fast, seventy miles an hour. The nurse opened the back door and rolled out on the highway.

Staci slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the shoulder.

“You bastard!” she screamed. “Look what you’ve done!”

Traffic rushed by, and the car rocked with the force of the gusts. Staci dashed out the door and ran back, searching for the woman. She found her crumpled on the side of the road. She knelt down and felt for a pulse under the jawline … nothing. Her heart sank. Lifeless green eyes, forever questioning, stared up at Staci. Dark black blood pooled on the road from the blonde’s lethal head injury.

“How is she?” Cooper called, stumbling to the scene.

Staci glared up at him. “She’s dead, you jerk.”

“I’m going to be sick.” He ran to the guardrail. She could hear him throwing up. Staci looked down at the young woman, and her mind rapidly created a plan to get them out of yet another situation. This one was a disaster.

“Get back here! We’ve got to move her … before someone stops.”

“I can’t.”

“You will.”

Staci stood up and walked over to Cooper. She planted both hands on his chest and roughly pushed him back. “You killed her!” She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him over to the body. “Nothing like this was ever supposed to happen.”

“Well, it did!”

She held back what she really wanted to say. It wasn’t the time. It was time to ditch this pretty boy before he landed both of them in jail. They half-dragged, half-lifted the body to the car as the late-night traffic blew by.

That was hours ago, and a lot had happened since then. A lifetime had happened.

They’d managed to heave the women into the trunk, bagging the battered head to minimize the blood trail. Then before dawn, they drove to a secluded patch of grazing land outside of Spring, Texas, carried the body far off the road, and buried the nurse where she would not be found for months, maybe years.

“Mary S. Stevens” was her name. Staci cringed at the thought of calling herself Mary. The last Mary she knew was during a stay in the second … no, fourth … foster home. After thinking for a moment, she decided that the middle initial and the green eyes were a perfect match for her plan—meant to be. Isn’t that called “kismet”? “Staci Stevens” would suit her just fine.

Staci paused, glanced over her left shoulder, and took a long look at the still form of her partner of five months. His story had attracted her, a kindred spirit. She had felt sorry for him, wanted to help him out. Besides, he was cute. He had been fun, for a while. She’d hoped he might be different from the rest of the guys she attracted—a string of losers. She was wrong. First he’d started talking down to her. Then she could do nothing right. Then he started flirting outrageously with any female, regardless of shape, size, or age. She was certain he was sleeping around. But the last straw was tonight, when he hit her.

“What is it with me?” she said to the sad image in the mirror. “Why do I always attract the wrong guys?” She paused, looking into the eyes in the mirror. Fear pulsed up from her gut, and her heart pounded as dark memories of Blake surfaced. Like a fool, she had fallen for him. She’d believed that the raging river of their chemistry was love. How many girls mistake chemistry for love? She had been lucky to get away.

Her heart was troubled, heavy with remorse and regret.

“Twenty-three. I’m twenty-three, and what do I have?” It was time for a New Year’s resolution she would actually keep. She continued to talk to the mirror. “Something’s got to change. Something’s got to give. I can’t live like this anymore.” She glanced back at his body on the bed. What a mess.

The plan that came together was risky, but she didn’t have a choice. Cooper had paid a week’s rent in cash. She removed his wallet, found the hidden wad of cash from his drug sales in his boots, and then destroyed all clues to his identity. She decided to wipe down the room for prints. She’d seen that done in movies. Take away any trace of her. She would have to wait to shower. Move on quickly. She would leave him here. Put a “do not disturb” sign on the door.

Got to move. Now!

SANTOS

United Flight 1138 streaked east across the snow-dusted salt-and-pepper plains of Colorado. With a cruising altitude of thirty-four thousand feet, clear skies and visibility well over ten miles, the flight crew settled in for a smooth ride into Houston.

In the cabin of the Boeing 737, Santos Rosa, RN, slept. Dressed in faded jeans, white cotton blouse, green suede jacket, and hiking boots, she might have been a college student returning from a stolen mid-semester ski week. The sun streamed through the window and splashed across her lap, warming her. Her thick mane of auburn hair, streaked with gold, cascaded to her shoulders. Briefly, she opened her eyes, readjusted the backpack under the seat in front of her, and checked her watch, a treasured possession of her late mother. Every time she looked at it she felt close to her—a physical connection with a beautiful soul she could no longer touch. It was a bittersweet feeling of comfort. The devastation of her loss was no longer razor sharp, but it still weighed on her heart. She looked at the watch again and settled back to find a comfortable position to continue her nap.

An announcement broke the relative quiet of the cabin.

“We have a medical emergency,” reported a flight attendant, the steady voice pitched high with anxiety. “Do we have any medical personnel on board? Please come to galley in the back of the plane.”

Instantly alert, Santos unbuckled her seat belt and stood up. “I’m a nurse. Please let me through.”

The two men in her row stepped out into the aisle.

Santos appeared younger than her twenty-six years, partially because of her size, a petite five feet. A seasoned critical care nurse, she was proud to be heading back to work in the Coronary Care Unit of the Medical Center Hospital, located in the largest medical center in the world, the Texas Medical Center. This nonprofit mecca for health care, the largest employer in Houston, employed over one hundred thousand people in some fifty-four member institutions that included hospitals, clinics, research centers, colleges, and universities. Working in the TMC offered Santos tremendous opportunities to learn and serve. Clinicians, patients, teachers, and students from all over the world sought the TMC for its reputation, cutting-edge research, and state-of-the-art patient care. She felt honored and blessed to be part of a great team of clinicians.

Santos walked quickly toward the galley, balancing on the seat backs, when sudden turbulence caused the plane to shudder. A large man lay sprawled on the floor, half of his body in the galley, legs in the aisle. Two flight attendants, a man and a woman, had removed the cushions from one of the seats and attempted to support his head.

Dropping to the floor to get a look at the man, she told the flight crew, “I’m a nurse.”

“Thank you for responding.” Santo heard relief in the voice of the young flight attendant.

“What happened?” Santos asked while assessing the man, who was struggling to regain consciousness. Her brain rapidly went through an automatic checklist, scanning for diagnostic clues.

“He came back here and just fainted.”

Santos sat on her heels, at eye level with the patient, and looked into his eyes. They stared back at her, unseeing.

“Here’s the blood-pressure cuff and stethoscope from the medical kit.”

Santos broke open the plastic lock on the zippered bag and removed the equipment. “It’s not going to be easy to hear his heartbeat with the noise of the plane. I’m going to have to go by what I see on the dial.” She put the stethoscope around her neck and then wrapped the cuff around the man’s large arm. It hardly fit. He looked up at her, confused. As she inflated the cuff, he looked down at his arm. She got a blood-pressure reading—low. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. The flight attendant passed her a wet towel, and Santos used it to wipe his face, hoping to revive him further. She spoke to him calmly, her voice warm with professional concern, willing him to lock onto her voice and pull himself out of his stupor.

“I’m a nurse. My name is Santos. Are you diabetic?”

“No, no!” he responded shaking his head vehemently.

Santos breathed a sigh of relief. He was coming back.

“Will you need medications from the medication kit? The AED is right behind you,” offered the lead flight attendant.

“No,” Santos responded as she continued to assess his blood pressure. “I think he’s coming back—should be fine if we can keep him awake.”

The man looked at Santos, confused.

“Are you hypertensive?”

He nodded yes.

“Can you look at me? Follow my finger?” Santos looked in his eyes. He was tracking the movement of her finger. He was waking up now. That was good.

“What’s your name?”

“Wayne.”

“Where are you from, Wayne?”

“Louisiana …”

“Did you take your blood pressure medication today?”

“Three-thirty this morning … with a water pill.”

“Can you tell me what happened just now?”

Embarrassed, he said, “I felt light-headed … then I thought I was going to throw up. I didn’t want to do that, so I headed back here.”

He was a big man, and his striped shirt was unbuttoned where one of the attendants had attempted to loosen his clothing.

“Can we give him a little breathing room, folks?” The hovering crowd stepped back. “Have you been drinking fluids today?”

“No.” He looked back at her. She nodded, expecting that response. “You didn’t want to have to go to the bathroom.”

“That’s right,” he said with a nod.

“When you travel, and after you take your blood pressure medication, you need to eat and drink. You can get dehydrated.” The words spilled out before she realized he would not remember a word she said. He was barely conscious.

She looked up at the flight attendant. “Do you have some water?”

The flight attendant passed Santos orange juice.

“Could I have water instead? It will be easier on his stomach—with a straw please?” Santos smiled. “Thanks so much.”

“No problem.” The flight attendant looked relieved that her passenger was waking up. She went back into the galley and returned with a cup of water and a straw.

“Would you like some of this?” Santos asked him. “You need to drink, drink, drink when you fly.” She smiled at him. “This air is so dry, it’ll quickly dehydrate you.”

He nodded. She held the plastic cup while he gratefully sipped.

“Do you need on-the-ground medical advice?” the senior flight attendant asked behind her.

“No, I think we’re good here,” responded Santos, her eyes never leaving her patient, relieved that he was reviving. “Mild dehydration—fluids should get him back to normal. Can you give him extra water until we land? Any chance you have some crackers or something to settle his stomach?”

“Sure thing.”

Santos got up off of her knees and said, “Let’s get him in a seat here in the back of the plane,” then paused for affirmation from the crew. Together they guided the man, now fully conscious, to a vacant seat.

“You’ll be okay,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Try to get something to eat when you get off the plane.” He nodded, looking exhausted and confused. “And check in with your doctor or nurse practitioner right away. Okay?”

“The captain has decided to speed up our return to Houston,” the lead flight attendant said behind Santos. “I’ll make an announcement when we land asking the passengers to wait until we can get our patient off the plane. The captain has decided EMTs will meet us. Can you accompany the patient off the plane?”

“Sure.” Santos nodded and headed back to her seat.

Once settled, she pulled out Jodi Picoult’s new book. She had heard Jodi speak at The John Cooper School Signatures Author Series, a fundraiser for the school and a platform for local authors. Santos loved the feel of books, turning the pages, the smell of the print. Her love of books began when her mother would take her to the public library as a child. The library had a distinctive smell—dust and ink. She could get lost in a book and her world would go away. She could walk side by side with fascinating characters she would never meet in worlds she might never see. She could travel back in time to Victorian Paris and see the clothes and homes of the characters as well as look deeply inside their hearts and lives. There was an intimacy in books that was often lacking in conversation.

At the end of a chapter, she put the book down and reminisced about the recent trip to Denver. This flight might be the last few moments of quiet for a long time. The American Association of Critical Care Nurses national conference had been great—in so many ways. Every year, her zeal for learning was fed by the conference speakers and the new colleagues she met. It was reassuring that many of the nurses faced the same issues she did. Over the years, Santos had developed a national network.

She’d even been able to catch up with Yasmin Kazan, a colleague and dear friend, who was doing a yearlong leadership exchange in Denver. They talked so much they hardly ate a bite. Leaving Yasmin behind was bittersweet— the Houston Ballet’s Nutcracker Market would not be the same without her friend. She would have to take a hiatus from the annual tradition this year—unless her new neighbor, Lynne, wanted to go. Maybe even Mrs. Banks? They both knew each other from the neighborhood. That would be fun.

Reenergized, Santos was excited to return to work. She missed her colleagues in Houston, one in particular. She had loaded her backpack with a ton of professional material to share—more tools for the toolbox. As the time flew by in Denver, she kept in touch with nurses on the unit as well as her sister, Camilla, one of her six siblings, who had emailed to say they had planned another family dinner for Sunday. Count on Camilla, whose family lived in the Heights—a boutique community of wonderful homes and unique shops—to hold the family together after the death of their mother. Santos was anxious to see her father and especially Abuelita, her grandmother. Though Colorado had great Tex-Mex food, there was nothing like homemade family specialties, recipes passed down for generations in a family that had immigrated to the United States from Mexico decades ago.

Santos settled back in her seat and looked out the window at the expansive green forest emerging below. The plane was making its final approach into George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Home. Patrick.

She smiled and felt warm all over. Patrick Sullivan, RN, was five years her senior and a seasoned clinician in the CCU. Over the past few months, they’d been developing a relationship outside of work. Colleagues for several years, they were now taking their friendship into unknown territory. She loved him dearly as a friend, and they both hoped for something more. Regardless of what happened to them as a couple, she would be forever grateful to him. Since last year—the murders, the violence—fear seemed to hover, always a shadow on the periphery, darkening her life. Every day was a step further away from what had happened. And every day, her feelings for Patrick burned brighter. Was he the one?

Her emotions fluctuated from day to day, fueled by his obvious love yet confused by her fears. She couldn’t put a finger on it—was it fear of being hurt, commitment, loss of control? His deep blue eyes, always sparkling with a hint of mischief, seemed to look right through her, reading her innermost thoughts, touching her soul. His kisses left her breathless. Her heart beat rapidly as she thought about it. She was frightened by how he swept her away. She needed to talk to someone, but she wasn’t sure who—talking it out always helped to understand her feelings. With Yasmin gone, she was at a loss for a close woman friend. Emma? Camilla was always a possibility, but she was so busy with her family.

Valentine’s Day was coming up, and they had talked about a special dinner. He would plan this date, she would plan the next. She smiled, and a sense of peace settled over her. She could just take this one day at a time. She looked down at the ground rushing up to meet the plane. Though Colorado was spectacular, this was home. It was good to be back.

BLAKE

“Evil begins when you begin to treat people as things.”

Terry Pratchett, I Shall Wear Midnight

Blake Jarvis sat in a dark corner of the popular Fort Worth country-and-western bar, sipping a cold beer, watching the door. Shadows hid his dark, rugged features. It was Friday night happy hour, and business was brisk. Clusters of women entered the dim, boisterous interior of the rustic, wood-beamed bar, hung with Texas flags and those of the Confederacy. Big & Rich’s “Save a Horse” played loudly in the background. With one finger, Blake tilted his hat, rocked back in his chair, stretched out his long, blue-jeaned legs, and smiled in anticipation. He had picked the right place.

He favored blondes and was always careful. He didn’t want to pick them up too young. Daddy might have a curfew or be waiting up for them. It was best to pick a working woman, someone who lived alone. He liked to watch for a while. He savored the foreplay of the hunt—check them out and try to figure out if they were there to party with the girls, flirt with the guys, or potentially hook up. Reading body language was a challenge, and it made the hunting fun. It had been a while since his last conquest, and he was obsessed with finding the next object of his desire. Sex with a stranger was as common to him as beer with a burger. He was ravenous for a fix of creamy, soft skin with a touch of damsel in distress. Their fear was an aphrodisiac.

A tall blonde with short, curly hair, dressed in a trim tan business suit, telltale briefcase in hand, stood in the doorway. Light surrounded her slim silhouette, and at first, he could not see her face. She hesitated as if trying to make a decision, looked around, and headed for an empty seat at the bar. She sat down, dropped her briefcase on the floor, leaned in to the bartender, and ordered. Her clothes marked her as new—out of place in a bar where jeans and boots were the uniform of the night.

He sauntered toward the bar, weaving through the tables, eyes always on the prize.

“Buy you a drink?” His lips curled into a movie-star smile. He knew he had a powerful impact on women. Freshly showered, he had put on aftershave—not too much, just a touch. Every detail of his appearance was calculated, designed to attract, to set a lonely girl’s heart throbbing.

She turned around and politely smiled back. He watched as her blue eyes, lush with dark lashes, first looked at his mouth, then traveled to his dark brown eyes, and finally rested on his thick, curly black hair. He held his hat in his hand, waiting for the full impact to register.

She paused, thinking.

“Thanks, but no thanks … I just stopped by for a drink on the way back to my hotel.”

His mind raced ahead to the possibilities and pleasures of corralling this independent filly in a hotel.

“Come on, Darlin’ … one drink. Don’t break my heart.” He crossed his hat across his heart.

She looked down and considered.

“One drink?” he asked again. “Can’t you see I’m lonely?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I have work to do tonight. One drink is my limit.” She smiled at him like he was an annoying child and pushed back from the bar. “I’ve got to go.”

Dismissed, turned down, the rage of rejection rippled through him, and he stood his ground, blocking her way. His jaw tightened, and the smile froze on his face.

“I’ve got to go,” she repeated firmly and glanced back at the bartender.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. The bartender stood watching.

Best to back off. Not make a scene.

“Maybe next time,” Blake said, his smile relaxing. He gallantly swept his hat to the side with a flourish, clearing the path for her to leave.

She picked up her briefcase and with a nod to the bartender, headed to the door. He watched her leave. His hands balled into fists, and he opened and closed his fingers, trying to control the anger that threatened to explode in his chest while considering what he would have, could have done with her.

Bitch! Just another blonde bitch …

So much like the one he’d lost.

The one he was looking for.

Where was she?

SANTOS

The next day Santos drove into Houston for a family dinner at Camilla’s. She had packed a small suitcase and planned to spend the night at Camilla’s and make the easy drive to work in the morning. Though she hated leaving a week’s worth of mail piled on her kitchen counter, an overflowing laundry basket, and a garden that looked like a jungle, family dinners were rare and a priority. The chores would be there when she returned home the next night.

She was excited to see everyone. Since it was Sunday, she had dressed up in a short black suede skirt, boots, a cream silk blouse, and a new red vest she had found at a Western boutique in the Denver airport. Blessed by light traffic, she made the trip from Spring to the Heights quickly.

Santos drove up to the Craftsman-style home, a Sears catalogue model built in the early 1900s. A wide screened-in porch spanned the front of the house. Lush, green Boston ferns punctuated the expansive seating area. Cozy wicker rocking chairs lined with colorful pillows tempted family and guests to linger. Many a lazy hour was spent here reading, daydreaming, or playing games, sipping tall glasses of iced tea or lemonade.

Over the past month, Camilla’s husband, Miguel, had built a treehouse in the gigantic burr oak out back. Evidently it could hold a card table and chairs or sleep five in sleeping bags. Santos smiled with anticipation. Not only was she excited to catch up with her family and see the new treehouse, but she was starving.

She noticed a silver Jeep parked down the street. Patrick? No, it couldn’t be. How would he know she’d be here? Her heart raced with the euphoria of new love, then fell when she realized it couldn’t be his car. Santos gathered her purse and small bag and then locked her car.

“Hey you! Need some help?”

She looked up at the voice calling her from the porch.

It was Patrick. She smiled, and her heart filled with happiness when she saw his tall, lean form. She quickly crossed the street and ran up the short flight of stairs to the porch.

“I didn’t know you would be here!” She dropped her purse in a chair and set her small suitcase on the porch.

“Camilla thought it would be fun to surprise you,” Patrick said, smiling. His heart-melting sapphire eyes were dark with longing. He reached out for her. “Come here … give me a hug and a kiss before I lose you to the family.”

Santos laughed, wrapped her arms around him, and stood on her toes, her lips parting for his kiss. The connection with his waiting mouth sent a shock wave of warmth down to her toes.

“I missed you,” he said as he looked down at her. “I think it’s harder on the one left behind. You were off having fun in Denver. Probably did some skiing too.”

“I did not ski … no time,” she said, chocolate brown eyes flashing gold sparks. “Don’t be a pain so early. I just got back. I missed you too.” She stopped to run her hand over the top of his head, feeling the rough cut of his buzz. “You cut this any shorter, I’m not going to be able to tell you’re a blond.”

“Keeps me cool. Makes cleanup after a run easy,” he grinned.

“You look great,” she smiled. “Every time we’re apart, I think of all of things I’d like to share with you.”

“Me too,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “So what are we waiting for?”

She pushed him away, laughing. “We just got started! We haven’t even had our first Valentine’s Day together!”

“Speaking of that, I need to talk with you about a couple of things before your family discovers you’re here.”

“Everything okay?” Santos’s bright mood suddenly clouded with worry.

“Pretty much … just wanted you to know that Emma is going to be out for a while.”

“Is she sick? Is she okay?” Emma meant the world to her. What would she do without Emma? She had been Santos’s clinical mentor from the beginning. Emma was a linchpin, a vital member of the CCU team. Valued for more than her expertise, she was loved by her patients and the medical staff. Like Santos, she was also multilingual, fluent in both French and Creole. Santos felt blessed to be around Emma’s compassion and intelligence. She hoped someday to have the poise and grace Emma demonstrated every day. Even on the most volatile days in the CCU, Emma’s calm presence reassured everyone around her. Her down-to-earth advice and sense of humor helped make the most difficult situation easier to bear.

“No, she’s fine, but her mother fell and broke her hip. She had to head to New Orleans to take care of her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is her mom going to be okay?” Santos’s heart felt heavy with grief, remembering her mother’s death. Now Emma might be going through the same thing.

“From what I know, she’s just eighty, has always been healthy, and has a great spirit … so her recovery chances are very good.”

“That’s a relief, but I’ll really miss Emma. She’s a rock, such a great mentor. Will she be gone long?”

“Don’t know. I’m sure we’ll find out more tomorrow from Heather. Believe me, I’m going to miss her too— maybe not for all of the same reasons you do.”

“I know.” Santos laughed, and her worries fell away. “She feeds you … and Nick. You’re both going to be out of luck now. Nick’s going to die when he hears this news. He’s going to fade away to nothing.”

Emma was generous with her fabulous Creole cooking, bringing extra from home several times a week. Nick, tall and lean as a flagpole, was one of the cardiology residents and a good friend of Patrick’s. He had the metabolism of a hummingbird and the nose of a beagle. He could track food from floors away. A hungry staff member who was lucky enough to get to the fridge before Nick could usually find something to warm for a quick stand-up lunch or dinner break.

“Guess so,” Patrick said, shaking his head. He brightened, “Unless you start cooking more for us. That would be great!” His smile beamed, proud at his great idea. He took both of her hands and looked down at her with adoring eyes that pleaded for food.

He was hard to resist.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “We might need to organize potlucks for the unit more regularly. Okay, Patrick, so that’s the bad news. Do you have any good news?”

“Of course! I’ve been researching restaurants for Valentine’s Day. There’s a relatively new one in Bellaire— Costa Brava Bistro. It’s Spanish and French food. I went over and checked it out, even picked out a table for us.”

“That sounds great. We don’t get much time to try new places.”

“Can you stay overnight with Camilla that night … so you don’t have to drive back to Spring?” He smiled and then looked serious. “Or you could spend the night with me.”

“You’re moving too fast.” Santos stepped away from him. The front door opened, flooding the porch with light. Spanish and English spilled out into the cool night air.

“Santos, you are here!”

“Papa, yes, just arrived.” Santos reached for her father, burrowing her head into his shoulder, smelling the comforting scent of soap and Old Spice. He held her close. Perfect timing. Saved by my father! She felt such peace enveloped in the safety of his loving arms. Though she knew he was happy to see her, when she looked up at him she saw grief lingering in his eyes. His shoulders drooped, and his eyes began to fill with tears.

“You look more and more like her.”

“I’ll consider that a compliment, an honor.” She smiled and hugged him again.

Camilla’s generous frame filled the doorway. Her lustrous, long black hair, parted down the middle, was pulled back into a bun. Her light chocolate skin glowed from the warmth of the kitchen. She wore a beautiful, vintage cream jacquard blouse and red flared skirt; a long black silk cord with a silver cross hung from her neck.

“Is the party out here?” She gestured wide with her arms.