Desert Gift Read Online Free PDF

examining rooms and offices.
    Just the other side of it, Sophie leaned over the checkout counter. “What—?”
    “I’m not here.” He hit the maze of halls at a good clip, a rat that knew its way to the prize.
    The prize was his office, a sanctuary in his home away from home. It was a small room with beige walls, hunter green accents, two armchairs. The single window overlooked a parking lot. On one wall hung the requisite paperwork which he hoped comforted patients with its proof that he was licensed. If they didn’t like those, they could admire the wide-angle photo of the Chicago skyline that he’d taken early one morning from Baxter’s yacht. Sunlight glinted off skyscraper windows.
    Jack took off his coat and Cubs ball cap, laid them on a chair, and sat behind his oak desk. It was in vacation mode, cleared except for the lamp and two photos, one of his son, Connor, the other of Jill. He balled his hands into fists, unsure what to do first: put Jill in a drawer or move her book from the bookcase behind him into the trash can?
    And why was he having such thoughts?
    There was a knock on the door and it swung open. Sophie appeared. “But you are here, Dr. G.”
    He uncurled his fingers. Usually he smiled at how she stated the obvious, gently calling attention to what others would just as soon ignore. She explained insurance woes to crusty patients in such gentle terms they ended up laughing. Anger over appointment mix-ups evaporated once she got involved. Jack would pause in the hallway to eavesdrop on her just so he had a reason to grin.
    At the moment, he did not want to talk to her.
    He said, “No, I am not here.”
    She stepped into the office. “Your cut is bleeding.”
    “That’s why I’m here.” He pulled a hankie from his pocket and pressed it against his head. “I called Baxter. He said he’d take a look at it.”
    “It shouldn’t be bleeding. Your accident was days ago.” She referred to Tuesday night’s minor car mishap. He had braked at a stop sign, slid through the icy intersection, and hit a parked car. “What did you do to it?”
    He shrugged and lowered his hand. “Shampooed a little too vigorously, I guess.”
    Sophie winced and slid into the chair on the other side of the desk. “How do you shampoo off eight stitches?”
    “Beats me.”
    Taller than average, she was a slip of a thing, bony even. Never married, she lived with her widowed mother and two cats. Although she occasionally joined Jack and Baxter for lunches or dinners, she always maintained a certain distance, old-fashioned to the core in work ethics. He’d given up on getting her to call him Jack.
    Her close-set eyes above a narrow nose zeroed in on him. “Dr. Baxter is with patients.”
    “I’ll wait.”
    “Did you see how many are out there?”
    He searched his memory but saw only Jill’s pouty face. “Men are not wired to notice,” she had informed often enough for him to have the words memorized. “But you can train yourself to see the details better.” Evidently his progress was not all that great.
    “No, I didn’t see how many are out there.”
    “The waiting room is half-full, three-fourths of them for Dr. Baxter.”
    Six doctors, two physicians’ assistants, and several nurses were on staff. They rotated on weekends, but there were always plenty available to cover. He and Baxter seldom stepped in for the other doctors, keeping to their own specialty of feet. “Three-fourths for him? How did that happen?”
    “It’s Saturday, and the temperature is supposed to go above freezing for the first time in three weeks. February spring fever.” She cocked her head. “And it’s Valentine’s Day. Most of the staff found other things to do.”
    Valentine’s Day? He cringed. There had been a hole in Jill’s itinerary today. His plan was to fill it with a surprise garden tour at the Getty Museum.
    “Dr. G, why are you here? in Chicago? You should be in California.”
    “Uh.” Not expecting to see Sophie