Dancing in the Rain (4 page)

Carolyn spooned sugar into her cup and took her time stirring it while she tried to compose her reply. What should she say? Everyone knew she was engaged. The ring on her left hand was proof of that. The reasons, however, were known only to her. Not even Ed understood why she had accepted his offer of marriage. Though she had shared many secrets with Ed over the years, that was one he would never learn.

Carolyn settled on the truth, or at least part of it. “The folks at home were surprised by my engagement, too,” she admitted. Surprise was a mild way to describe the total disbelief that the announcement had created in Canela. “But it was for the opposite reason. No one thought I’d marry Ed,
because
he was the boy next door.”

Helen’s expression was thoughtful as she sipped her tea, and Carolyn wondered if something she had said had told Helen more than she’d intended. “Then it wasn’t what the French would call a
coup de foudre
?” Helen asked.

“A lightning bolt? Not really.” Not at all. “Ed and I were best friends all our lives. You could say that one thing led to another.” The war, her own impetuosity, Ed’s fears. They were all reasons she now wore a diamond on her left hand. But Helen didn’t need to know that. Nor did Ed.

Helen nodded as if satisfied. “Love is wonderful, no matter where you find it.” She touched her wedding band.

“And it has many forms,” Carolyn added. For she did love Ed. He was her dearest friend. Agreeing to marry him wasn’t a mistake any more than coming to France had been.

That night Carolyn pulled out her stationery. Unlike Dwight’s Louise, she did not write to Ed only once a week. She tried to send him a note, even if only a brief one, every day or two, for she knew how important mail was to the soldiers in the trenches.

Dear Ed.
Carolyn crumpled the paper and grabbed another piece. She would address a friend as “dear.” Her fiancé deserved more.
Dearest Ed.
That was better.
I know you of all people won’t be surprised by my latest adventure.
Growing up next door, he’d been aware of the scrapes that her impetuosity had gotten her into, and more than once he’d pretended that she had been with him, when the truth was she had been doing things that would have alarmed her parents, including attempting to drive the family’s brand new automobile.

Yesterday I worked as a nurse in the operating room. Can you picture that? The girl who cried when you skinned your knees
—and, thanks to the awkwardness that Ed had never outgrown, that had happened frequently—
was there, helping to dig out pieces of mortar and stitch—correction: ‘suture’—wounds.
She wouldn’t think about the amputation, and she certainly wouldn’t tell a man on the front lines that another man would never again walk normally. Ed was all too aware of the dangers of battle.

Knowing my luck, you won’t be surprised that I had to work with the most difficult doctor. To say it wasn’t easy is an understatement, but we both survived the experience and, more importantly, we helped many wounded.

Be careful, dearest Ed. And when this war is over, we’11 have a wedding Canela will remember for years.

Carolyn closed her eyes, picturing her wedding. She was walking down the aisle, dressed in her grandmother’s gown, carrying a bouquet of white roses. There at the front of the church, her groom was waiting. He was tall, with medium brown hair and hazel eyes. Carolyn’s eyes flew open. Why on earth was she conjuring the image of Dwight Hollins? It must be the weather that was confusing her thoughts so badly. That’s all it could be. Ed, red-haired, green-eyed, freckled, lanky Ed Bleeker was the man she was going to marry.

Of course he was.

Chapter Three

M
aybe if it would stop raining, he’d feel better. Dwight gave himself a mental shake as he walked through the mess line. He was supposed to be a brilliant diagnostician, able to examine a patient and quickly assess his problems. Even more importantly, he was reputed to be almost infallible in his determination of the correct treatment. Infallible, hah!

Dwight nodded as the elderly woman who stood behind the serving table, a perpetual frown on her face, offered him scrambled eggs. Though many of the delicacies which had made France a gastronomic wonderland were in short supply, the neighboring farms’ chickens seemed unaffected by the artillery shelling. Thank heavens for small mercies. The weather might be miserable, but at least the food was edible. Even though the chefs who had once created culinary masterpieces for the chateau’s inhabitants had fled, nothing could destroy the flavor of these eggs. Dwight wasn’t sure what seasonings the new cooks used; all he knew was that the eggs in Goudot were superior to any he’d eaten at home on the farm, and that was saying a great deal.

He accepted the brioche the woman offered him, knowing it was futile to ask for toast. The light roll was the only breakfast bread available. Dwight frowned as he made his way to one of the smaller tables. The nurses normally ate at the long table in the middle of the room, and occasionally a doctor would join them. Dwight had done that once, but the awkward silence that had greeted him had told him he was being tolerated, not welcomed.

He frowned again. It wasn’t the nurses, the absence of toast or even his patients that were bothering him this morning. The problem was himself. He, the brilliant diagnostician, could not explain it. His life was no different than it had been a week ago. Dwight knew that as surely as he knew that it had rained for seven of the last seven days. Nothing had changed, and yet he felt as if he had lost something important. The worst part was, he couldn’t explain what it was that seemed to be missing. Something was making him stare out the window, looking for someone who never came. Something was making him waken in the middle of the night, listening for the sound that somehow eluded him. Something was wrong, and he hadn’t an inkling what it might be.

He swallowed the eggs, washing them down with a cup of coffee, oblivious to the flavor that just a week ago had pleased him.

“Something wrong, Hollins?” One of the other doctors asked as he plunked his plate onto the table next to Dwight.

Dwight shook his head. “Nothing more than usual.” It was a lie, but what was the point of admitting that you hadn’t the slightest idea why you felt morose one moment and then ready to laugh with joy the next? It had to be the effect of the incessant rain.

“Heard from home?” The other doctor’s attempts to make conversation were almost as incessant as the rain.

This time Dwight nodded. “I can always count on Louise.” As he pronounced the words, Dwight’s eyes widened. That was what was wrong. Louise’s last letter had been shorter than usual. That was why he was feeling so out of sorts. Of course it was. It couldn’t be anything else.

An hour later Dwight stared at the man on the gurney, assessing the extent of his injuries. Private Rogers was luckier than most. Though he had been exposed to poisonous gas, he was still alive. His biggest risk now was infection, caused by the weakened state of his lungs. Dwight scribbled a note on the man’s chart, then turned to the next patient. Sergeant Scanlon was not so lucky. Shrapnel had torn a huge hole in his leg, shattering the fibia. It would take more than luck. It would take all the skill Dwight possessed to save this man’s leg. Dwight felt the adrenaline rush through him as he accepted the challenge. He would save the leg. That was why he had become a doctor. That was why he had come to France.

“Scalpel,” he called. Dwight’s order was followed by the sound of metal clanging on the floor. He glared at the nurse. Didn’t she understand what was at stake here? “Scalpel,” he repeated. “And maybe this time you can place it in my hand.” Her movements jerky, the nurse dropped the blade end of the scalpel onto his outstretched palm. Instinctively, Dwight recoiled, and the instrument tumbled to the floor without lacerating his hand. The adrenaline that had been preparing him for a difficult surgical process began to fade, replaced by anger.

“Nurse—what’s your name?”

“Helen Guthrie.” Her voice trembled almost as much as her hand had. It was infuriating, the way the nurses seemed to find even the most elementary tasks difficult.

Dwight fixed his stare on her. “Very well, Nurse Guthrie,” he said, holding out his hand for a scalpel. “Are you aware that the reason you’re here is to assist me?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Then do so, and kindly refrain from causing lacerations. We have more than enough injuries to treat without our staff inflicting others.”

Though she did not fumble again, Nurse Guthrie’s movements were awkward, and the sidelong glances she gave him reminded Dwight of a frightened rabbit he had once seen cowering under a branch. Dwight tried not to sigh with frustration. The nurse was obviously afraid of him. They all were.

He knew they called him Hollow Heart and that they thought he had no emotions. They were wrong. He cared—oh, how he cared—about these patients. The soldiers were fighting in almost unbelievably primitive conditions, living in mud-filled trenches, sharing their quarters with rats whose size was legendary, somehow dealing with the incessant noise of artillery. When they were wounded, it was Dwight’s responsibility to heal them. And to do that, he needed nurses. He didn’t demand perfection, only competence. Was that so unreasonable? Apparently Nurse Guthrie thought it was.

Dwight clenched his jaw as he studied his patient’s leg, knowing that his success depended in part on the woman who was assisting him. There had to be one nurse who wouldn’t cower in his presence, one who could do her job. The other doctors claimed they had no such problems. That might be true, but those same doctors sent the most difficult injuries to Dwight. If he was going to save lives, he needed the best nurse Goudot had to offer, and that was not Nurse Guthrie.

As he tied the suture, Dwight heard a burst of laughter from the ward next door. The sound was so unexpected that it broke his concentration, and for a second he felt a flicker of annoyance. Then the realization hit him with the force of an ornery mule’s kick. That was it! That was the answer to his problem!

Dwight glanced at the window. The day was still gray and somber. Rain still lashed against the panes. Nothing had changed, and yet he couldn’t ignore the way he felt, as if he had found the elusive something he’d been seeking for the past week.

“Miss Pierce.” As soon as surgery was over, Dwight made his way to the head nurse’s tiny office. Now that he knew what he needed, he would waste no time in obtaining it.

“How may I assist you, Dr. Hollins?” If the gray-haired head of nurses was surprised by his appearance, she gave no sign of it. Nor, he noted with approval, did her hands tremble. Perhaps there were two members of the nursing staff who weren’t afraid of him.

“My request is fairly simple,” he said. “I need you to ensure that Carolyn …” Dwight shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know her last name,” he admitted, “but the patients call her Clothespin Carolyn.” To Miss Pierce’s credit, she did not react to the sobriquet. “I need Carolyn to serve as my operating room assistant henceforth.”

The nurse shook her head. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I can’t do that.”

It was not the response Dwight had expected, and it most definitely was not the one he wanted. “Has that particular nurse left our hospital?” That was the only reason he could imagine for the refusal.

“Oh, no, Doctor, she has not. But …”

Thank goodness! Dwight tried to ignore the rush of satisfaction that surged through him when he realized that it was indeed Carolyn who had caused the patients’ laughter. “If she’s here, I see no reason why she cannot be assigned to me.”

“There is a reason, I assure you.” Miss Pierce pursed her lips, as if annoyed by Dwight’s persistence. Didn’t she understand that men’s lives were at stake? Dwight needed Clothespin Carolyn, and not because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Beauty had nothing to do with his request.

“Pray, tell me why I cannot have the one nurse who possesses more than a modicum of competence.”

The head nurse folded her hands on her desk, giving Dwight the impression she was praying for patience. So was he. This whole conversation was absurd. A doctor shouldn’t have to plead for the right equipment or the right assistant.

“You’ve just identified the problem, Dr. Hollins. Carolyn Wentworth is not a nurse; she’s an aide.”

“Impossible! She assisted me the other day.”

Miss Pierce regarded Dwight as if he were slightly demented. “You must be mistaken,” she said, her voice low and filled with concern. “Miss Wentworth is not trained as a nurse. There is no reason she would have been in the operating room.”

“She was there,” Dwight said coldly. He was not accustomed to having his word questioned, especially on something this important. “Might I suggest that we ask her to explain what happened.”

“Certainly, Doctor.”

It must be the weather.
That was the only explanation Carolyn could find for the way she felt. Nothing else made any sense. She sat on the edge of her bed and eased off her shoes. Her feet always ached at the end of a shift in the wards. But aching feet were not what bothered her. The emptiness was. She couldn’t understand it. The patients appreciated her; and she knew that she was helping them, if only in a small way. That should have filled her with satisfaction, and yet—for some reason—she felt as if something important was missing from her life. Carolyn might have called it homesickness, but she knew it wasn’t that. Though she missed her sisters and her life in Canela, this was a different feeling, a hollowness deep inside her. It must be caused by the incessant rain. It couldn’t be anything else.

The door flew open. “There you are.” Helen’s face was red with exertion, and the way she was panting told Carolyn she had run up the stairs. “Miss Pierce wants to see you. She looks angry.”

Carolyn slid her feet back into her shoes. A summons from the head nurse was not to be ignored. “Do you suppose she heard about the clothespin?” Dwight, that is Doctor Hollins, had seemed to believe that was a major infraction. Had he reported it to Miss Pierce?