Thursday Afternoons Read online

  “It’s Mrs. Kenney.” Erin inclines her head in the direction of the door down the hall that is their next stop. Yesterday at this time Amy was doing a bowel resection on the sixty-year-old woman, and she’s looking to discharge her today as long as things look good. Erin has been on duty since yesterday morning, responsible overnight for the six in-house surgical patients, plus sharing responsibility with another young resident for the fifty or so medical patients who are being lodged. Along with all of that, she would have helped out in the ER if anything remotely surgical came in.

  “Is there a problem? She’s set to be discharged shortly.” Amy hadn’t been paged overnight or accosted at the door this morning, so she assumed everything was in order with Mrs. Kenney. The surgery went as well as expected, and Mrs. Kenney should be moving around by now and eating a liquid diet—two benchmarks Amy insists on before she will release her patient.

  “There’s a bit of a problem with the orders you gave me last night.”

  A list of complications runs through Amy’s head—infection, the incision breaking open, internal bleeding—and her heart rate begins to pick up. “Why wasn’t I called,” she’s about to bark, when Erin softly shakes her head.

  “She won’t get out of bed,” Erin clarifies in a tone that indicates she’s embarrassed by such a simple problem.

  “Did you explain to her why she needs to get moving around?” Unlike years past, post-op patients aren’t allowed to languish in bed for days because of the risk it poses for pneumonia, clot formations, other infections. Numerous studies have shown that patients decondition at an alarming rate for every day they remain in hospital. Amy has already explained all of this to Erin. And to Mrs. Kenney.

  “I did, but she refused.”

  Amy huffs out a frustrated sigh as she strides purposefully to Mrs. Kenney’s room. “Follow me,” she says needlessly to Erin, who’s like a puppy dog on her heels.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kenney,” she calls out to the patient, who is a giant inert object under a flannel blanket. The woman’s eyes drift open and she responds in kind.

  Instead of berating her patient, Amy makes small talk. Asks her about her grandchildren, asks about the complicated quilt she knows the woman is anxious to get back to making. In the same mundane tone, as if she’s going to start talking about the weather next, Amy simply says, “We’d really like for you to be able to go home today, Mrs. Kenney. It’s time to get out of bed now.”

  The patient stares at her for a long moment, and Amy fears she’s going to refuse. She holds out her hand for Mrs. Kenney and is surprised when the woman takes it, tosses the blanket aside with her other hand, and swings her legs gingerly over the side of the bed. With Amy’s assistance, she hauls herself up, shuffles a few feet over to a chair, and plops down. “Well, that wasn’t nearly so bad.”

  After checking the woman’s incision and asking a few questions, Amy steers Erin into the hall. It’s time for Erin to go home and Amy doesn’t want to delay her any longer than necessary. Erin needs sleep. And some time with her baby girl.

  Together they walk toward the staff lounge, where Erin has been assigned a temporary locker. “When I started my surgical residency, I thought the job of a surgeon entailed diagnosing, cutting, and sewing. That’s it. I had almost no idea how to talk to patients, how to manage them.” Amy rolls her eyes for good measure and smiles at her exhausted resident because she knows exactly what it’s like to feel that you don’t have the know-how or the authority to get patients to cooperate. “Shows how little I knew. As a general practitioner, your bedside manner will be ten times better than mine in about three years. It takes time and some experience, that’s all. You’ll get there.”

  “Thanks,” Erin replies, relief smoothing out her frown lines.

  “Sure. Now go home and kiss that girl of yours.”

  “I will.” Erin beams and can’t make her exit fast enough. “Thank you.”

  “There you are.” Kate Henderson intercepts Amy outside the staff room. Kate is a scrub nurse, the best in the hospital if you ask Amy, although she doesn’t wait to be asked before extolling her best friend’s virtues. It’s a mutual admiration society, because Kate seems to think Amy is the best damned surgeon she’s ever worked with. “We could be rock stars in the big city,” Kate likes to joke. To which Amy replies, “Naw, we’d only be the opening act. Here we’re the rock stars.” Now Kate eyes Amy’s scrubs and says, “I thought today wasn’t a surgery day for you.”

  “It’s not, but a seventy-year-old woman was brought in this morning after a bad fall. Tibia fracture at the medial malleolus. Michaels is on it. He asked me to stand by in case he needs another pair of hands. Diabetic. Circulation issues.” What she doesn’t need to spell out is that if an amputation is needed, she will be called on. So far, she’s heard nothing, but if things go south, she knows her afternoon plans will be jeopardized. It’s all she can do to keep her thoughts from spiraling.

  Paul Michaels is the orthopedic surgeon on staff. The thing about a small hospital like this with its fifty-eight inpatient beds is that there aren’t many other surgeons to fight over the three operating room suites. Amy is one of three general surgeons, plus Michaels, plus a gynecologist, a urologist, and an ENT who occasionally need an OR suite. The schedule isn’t always pretty, but they manage.

  “How’s the young Dr. Kirkland doing?” Kate is just starting her shift and hasn’t worked much with Erin yet.

  “I think she’s going to be okay. A little confidence is all she needs.”

  “Well, then, looks like she’s learning from the best when it comes to that.”

  “Is that a backhanded insult, Hendy?”

  Kate smiles, and Amy feels the familiar tug of relief, the way she always does when Kate smiles. Kate lost her wife to cancer twenty-one months ago, and Amy knows she’s a long way from healing. Smiling is a good thing. Smiling means she’ll get through another day.

  “I wouldn’t dream of insulting our Chief of Surgery.” Kate pulls a face. “Mostly because I’d like to keep my job in the OR.”

  “Nice try. You’re not afraid of me.”

  “You’re right, hon, I’m not. Hey, would you like to catch dinner after work? Cooking for one holds about as much appeal as mowing the lawn. Which I also need to do.”

  Amy winces. Normally she’d take Kate up on her offer, but she doesn’t expect to be back home from the city until later in the evening. “Can’t, sorry. I’ve got something that I can’t get out of.” Not a total lie, and since she’s crappy at lying anyway, it’s best this way.

  Kate glances at her watch. “Time for lunch later in the cafeteria?”

  “Always.”

  Over a grilled cheese sandwich for Amy and mushy meatballs for Kate that look like they’ve been extracted from somebody’s abdomen, Amy tries to keep her mind from wandering to where it really wants to go: sex with Ellen in a few hours. It’s not like the best sex she’s ever had—not yet anyway—but there’s something about its forbidden nature, the anonymity and secrecy of it, that excites her. She doesn’t realize she’s smiling and staring off into space until Kate calls her on it.

  “You need to spill whatever’s making you look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” Kate admonishes. “Cuz I’d like a taste of that catnip!”

  Amy won’t confess what she’s up to with Ellen because she knows Kate won’t approve. Kate’s a romantic who’s only ever had one love. Not Kate’s fault that Anne left her a widow, but she doesn’t believe in casual hookups. Ever. In Kate’s mind, sex is two-thirds brain. Her conclusion? Casual sex is only one-third as satisfying as sex that’s part of a loving relationship. “So why settle for a bite instead of the whole meal,” she’s said on more than one occasion. Amy knows her friend is probably right, but damn, that one-third with Ellen feels pretty fucking amazing. Or maybe she’s simply that desperate for another woman’s touch. Whatever. She’s not quite ready to toss Ellen to the curb yet.

  “Wait.” Kate points an
accusing finger at her. “You didn’t meet someone, did you?”

  Amy tries to ignore the sudden dryness in her throat. “Nope. Haven’t met a soul lately that isn’t a patient or a colleague.”

  “You’d tell me if you did, right?”

  Yes, she’d tell Kate if she ever met anyone worthy of a committed relationship. Or even worthy of dating. “Of course I would. But you know me, I never go anywhere, so the odds of meeting somebody are—”

  “Ah, yes, but it’s always when you least expect it.” Kate met her future wife at the local YMCA after they’d unceremoniously collided while swimming laps.

  “Probably true, but I’m keeping my head down and my pants on, so there’ll be no trail of broken hearts in my future.”

  Kate clinks coffee cups with her, but the bonhomie falls apart when Kate looks at her with that mix of empathy and sadness that Amy knows all too well. “I know, sweetie. I know exactly how it is.” They’re both still firmly on their life rafts, hunkered down as though the storms they’d once endured continue to rage around them.

  * * *

  Ellis knocks softly on the hotel room door. Different room than last week, but inside it’s pretty much identical.

  “Hi,” Abby says, looking crisp and neat in a collarless white shirt and grey tailored jacket that’s the same shade as her eyes. “Please, come in.”

  A professional. Definitely. The fabric of her jacket is expensive and so is her cologne. There’s a trace of nobility in her bearing, all of which reassures Ellis, because she needs to be careful that a stranger like Abby isn’t after her for her money. Well, that’s her official excuse, but now she’s super curious about what Abby does for a living. Banker? CEO? Lawyer? Professor? It’s academic, though, because it’s understood they’re not to discuss such things.

  Ellis slips off her shoes. Reaches for the zipper at the back of her skirt.

  “Wait.” Abby says. Smiles to show she’s not calling the whole thing off. “Join me for a drink first?”

  “All right.” Ellis claims the solo chair, leaves the adjacent love seat for Abby. They may have had sex once, but it doesn’t mean they’re bosom buddies or confidantes or lovers who want to share everything, including space. When they’re not in bed, that is. “Jack and soda please.”

  “Coming right up.” Abby fixes two, deposits one in front of Ellis and sits down. “So.” She sips, eyes Ellis speculatively over the rim of the chunky crystal glass. “How was your week?”

  Ellis feels her eyes widen in surprise before she schools her expression and shrugs lightly. Crappy, if she’s honest. Mia has been recalcitrant. Her new job is demanding—meetings, thousands of pages of reports to review, budgets to analyze line-by-line, more meetings. God, she needs a good roll in the sack. “All right,” she answers evasively, knowing Abby is simply being polite, nothing more. “Yours?”

  Abby’s brows draw tightly together, and for a moment she looks like she’s going to answer honestly. But after another sip, her mouth curves into a rakish smile. “Let’s just say that this is the highlight of my week by far.”

  Good answer, Ellis thinks, and tips her glass in salute. Abby scoots over to the cushion closest to Ellis’s chair.

  “Your drink okay?”

  “Perfect.” She’s more of a wine drinker, but the Jack Daniels helps her relax quicker. And judging by the fresh glint in Abby’s eyes, it’s helping her relax as well. Helping embolden her, too, which Ellis can appreciate.

  “Last week,” Abby says, “here. Was it okay? Was it…should we do anything different?”

  Her gentle inquisitiveness confirms for Ellis that, like her, Abby is new at this. Not that it really matters, because Ellis isn’t looking for girlfriend material, but at least it’s indicative of Abby’s honesty. “Last week was great.” Her breath catches a little as she remembers Abby on her. Abby in her. Abby’s a handsome woman, no doubt about that, and her body is firm, muscular, athletic. She could be her type, Ellis supposes, except it’s a moot point. She can’t even imagine how she could date anyone right now, what with Mia’s issues and the demands of her job consuming her. Plus there’s the fact that she has absolutely no idea how to do an actual loving, committed relationship. She thought she did once, only to walk away when she suddenly couldn’t stand the shackles of being a live-in partner and a stepmom.

  Abby’s fingers edge onto Ellis’s knee, begin a slow slide north, past the hem of her skirt, and it sets Ellis’s skin on fire. Time for talking is clearly over. She settles her head back against her chair, closes her eyes, allows Abby’s touch to electrify her. God, those fingers are so talented. Perhaps she works with her hands, does something…magical with them. She moans as Abby’s fingers dance closer and closer, and she spreads her legs a little to grant her lover more access. Lover. Does what they’re doing make them lovers? Probably not, Ellis decides, because there’s likely an element of affection or at least something more than a casual connection that defines being lovers. If this ended right now, today, Ellis knows her life would resume its usual shape and she’d probably not give Abby more than a passing thought. But oh, this is not going to end right now, because Abby is stroking her through her Victoria’s Secret underwear, leaning over her, her breath warm against Ellis’s chest and neck. She wants to kiss Abby. Wants to come from Abby’s touch. Wants to get naked with her and feel Abby’s nakedness sliding softly and wetly against her skin.

  Ellis moans again, louder this time, reaches down and stills Abby’s hand. Her voice sounds low and thick when she says, “Abby, I need you on the bed.” God, does she ever.

  They move to the bed, this time Ellis letting Abby undress her. Up and over her head goes her blouse. Then Abby, with gentle yet efficient hands, removes her bra—black and satiny, which Ellis hopes makes her hair look even more aflame, more vibrant. Forget how her hair looks. The way Abby is looking at her breasts, ravenous and unblinking, is enough. Oh, how Ellis has missed having another woman look at her like this, like she wants to eat her right up. Which would be quite incredible, except she’s not a fan of engaging in oral sex with someone whose history she’s unaware of. And she suspects Abby feels the same. Still... She fantasizes about Abby going down on her while stimulating her with her fingers, and it makes her incredibly hot, incredibly turned on. It makes her a bit crazy, actually.

  They lie facing one another, Abby running her finger along the curve of Ellis’s hip, until Ellis can no longer wait to kiss Abby. She moves her head toward Abby’s, presses her lips to Abby’s. Ellis has always loved kissing, always loved the way it feels to have another woman’s mouth sliding over hers, all hot and demanding, then alternately sensual and tender and teasing. Abby’s lips push back against hers and they deepen the kiss until tongues begin exploring one another. It’s so powerful, having a part of Abby inside her, that Ellis feels the pressure building in her womb, a slow, liquid spreading of pleasure that soon races like an electrical current through her blood, up her spine, down her legs and back up again.

  “Please,” she begs, not caring that she’s being so needy. Out of this bed, this room, she’d never exhibit such raw vulnerability, such transparent neediness, to another person. In the boardroom, she’s ruthless, tough, in charge. But here, with this woman who possesses such capable hands, whose rainwater eyes are yielding, trusting, protective, and not to mention hot with desire, Ellis forgets who she is and allows herself to simply feel. She wiggles out of her skirt, sliding her underwear with it down her legs.

  “Oh yes,” she groans as Abby’s hand finds her. She rocks against it before fingers trace her lips and the wetness coating them. Ellis’s chest feels like it’s going to explode as Abby enters her. One finger. Then another before Ellis’s hips reach up to meet the rhythmic thrusts. They move together as one. When Abby’s thumb finds her clit, all other thoughts flee from her mind as she concentrates on her own breathing, on the way her pleasure climbs higher and higher. She’s dizzy with want, with the need to come. It’s entirely perfect, except fo
r the fact that Abby’s mouth isn’t, and can’t be, on her. But she imagines Abby licking her, sucking her, and in an instant her breath leaves her lungs in a whoosh as her orgasm sweeps up her legs with the power of an earthquake. Her body quivers violently, but Abby stays with her, rides her until Ellis is completely spent.

  Ellis arrives at the part where she wants to be held, wants a gentle landing from which to come down. Is it cool to ask Abby to hold her? To nestle against her? Probably not, but she chances it anyway, her hand touching Abby’s shoulder and motioning her forward. Wordlessly, Abby curls her body into Ellis’s, and the sensuality of the act is enough to evoke another post-orgasmic tremble.

  Goddamn, Ellis thinks with what little brainpower she has left. Where has this been all my life?

  Chapter Four

  Amy’s sister, Natalie, rushes into the restaurant as though being carried in on a windstorm. If you didn’t know her, you would think she did it for the attention, but it’s really because her life is in a constant state of chaos and drama. Three teenaged kids, an underemployed husband, and on top of that, she works full time as a receptionist for a busy gynecologist in Windsor. Getting her to sit down for an hour is a major victory.